


The Caged She-Wolf

by crossfirehurricane



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Robert's Rebellion, Tourney at Harrenhal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 118,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/crossfirehurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first work! This is my version of the events from Lyanna's betrothal to a little after the end of the war, and some of it will be non-canon; the ending is definitely AU.</p><p>"Her eyes were the color of cold steel, yet there was a fire burning behind them."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Robert // Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> For my purposes, everyone has been aged two years. Lyanna is 16, Ned and Robert are 20, and so on and so forth.

Robert Baratheon had high expectations for Lyanna Stark. 

Ned Stark, his closest friend and confidant, the man he had known since he was a boy warded at the Vale, had built those expectations to the heavens. Whenever he returned from a trip to Winterfell, his tongue repeated one name over and over: Lyanna. He could tell that his dear and honorable friend tried not to show preference for his sister over his other two brothers, but Eddard Stark simply couldn't hide it.

 _"She has gotten even more beautiful, Robert,"_ He had sighed wistfully, once he managed to get Robert to sit down and listen to an account of his last trip North, _"You should see her. She has nothing of my father- nothing but his long face, but that doesn't affect her beauty in any way. She is all my mother, who was the loveliest creature in the North."_ Robert's interest was admittedly piqued at the mention of physical appearances. It was no secret that the only thing he enjoyed more than a drink was a lovely woman on his arm and later in his bed- a dubious reputation for the 20 year old Lord of Storm's End.

 _"What's her body like?"_ Robert had asked him then, the wine getting to his head already. Ned gave a sullen grimace and ignored his friend's bawdy question and continued,

 _"She is as beautiful as she is wild. My father doesn't know what to do with her,"_ He gave a smile then, _"She and Benjen practice swordplay in secret using sticks- My father forbade her from touching any real steel and will not budge on the matter, despite her constant begging. Still, she rides like a true northman, and can outrace anyone, even Brandon him-"_

 _"She straddles her horse?"_ Robert asked, suddenly interested in this 'wild' sister of his. Ned had nodded, and noted that she even wore breeches, this curious sister of his, _"Breeches! Even under her dresses, she will wear breeches on the off-chance she can slip away from a party and go riding."_

That night Robert went to bed building an image of Lyanna in his head, but he found he simply couldn't. A woman, wild and beautiful, with masculine tendencies, who was a highborn lady, even... It simply did not fit. He could only imagine a wildling, unkempt and armed with a spear- Not a Lady of Winterfell by any means. The next day he had asked Ned if he had any portraits of her, to which he shook his head no. _"She could never sit down for one; she's far too impatient."_ was his explanation for it. Later that month, Jon Arryn approached Robert with a stern look and serious words,

 _"You must form and solidfy alliances, Robert,"_ He had said unsmilingly, _"The King Aerys grows more mad with each passing day, and you will need allies should the unrest reach you. You are the Lord of Storm's End, and you must start to behave as such."_ Robert had known that his trusty warden had said that last part in order to discourage his notorious whoring and drinking- but he also knew that Jon was right, as he always was. News often reached the Vale of the king's mercilessness and his penchant for burning criminals, no matter the crime. _"Go North,"_ Jon had said, _"Accompany Eddard on his next trip and speak to Lord Rickard Stark about forming an alliance. It is up to you how you wish to form it, whether through words or through something greater... But you must go."_

And go he did, and that is where he was now. They were only a few hours from the Great Keep of Winterfell, and Robert had been mulling all this over. The road had been long, and he found comfort between the legs of many a woman, but he found that Lyanna had been in his thoughts often, just as she always seemed to be in Ned's. Still, he had no image in his head, no prototype for this mysterious Stark girl. He considered this the rest of the way to Winterfell, where Lord Rickard Stark and his sons awaited their company.

Lord Rickard Stark was a man with a strong presence. He was gray of hair, large, with a long, straight beard. He had a stern face set with bright gray eyes that looked hard upon Robert. Brandon was beside him, as tall as his father, but leaner and more muscled, with a mischievious smile on his face and challenging brown eyes. He was four years Robert's senior, a ripe 22 years of age, with curly brown hair that grazed his shoulders and framed his strong jaw- In a word, Brandon was handsome, many times moreso than Eddard. Finally, the pup of the litter, Benjen Stark remained, bouncing in place excitedly, with a broad smile on his face. He was a lanky thing, and tall for a boy of 13 years of age, with straight black hair and gray eyes like his father's. Robert noted the fabled Lyanna Stark's absence with a sense of disappointment as he dismounted his horse and went over to the Lord of Winterfell.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Baratheon," Lord Rickard had boomed in a powerful and commanding voice, "You have been long overdue for a visit." He held out his hand and Robert shook it firmly. He smiled warmly and said,

"Thank you, my lord. I'm honored to finally meet you," He had meant it, too. All of the Seven Kingdoms knew of Lord Rickard's unshakable sense of honor and duty, and garnered everyone's respect.

Brandon had just released Ned from a hug when he turned to Robert, "Welcome!" He bellowed, a friendly smile lighting up his face, "I am glad to finally put a face to the legendary Robert Baratheon," Robert did not understand the remark, and grew more uneasy as Brandon's smile morphed into a smirk. He leaned closer to Robert, his mouth by his ear, as he shook his hand, "The brothel is just a little ways East of here." He whispered, and Robert's mouth went dry. He shot the older man a cautious glance, cleared his throat, and moved onto the last Stark. 

Lucky for him, Benjen was warm and unassuming, and his handshake was quick and friendly. He smiled up at him adoringly, and Robert ruffled his hair, delighting the little pup.

"Where is Lyanna?" Ned asked, voicing the question Robert himself wanted to ask, and he silently thanked him for it.

"Where is my blasted daughter?" Lord Rickard grumbled, shaking his head in a way that implied a total lack of power over his unruly daughter.

"Probably just changing into her dress, I bet," Brandon replied, "She likely was out riding and only just remembered that Ned was coming."

 _'Yes, that_ Ned _was coming.'_ , Robert noted, already sensing Brandon's lack of regard for him. Robert examined the young Brandon quizzically, failing to understand his contempt.

"Ned!" A feminine voice cried, and Robert turned to see a girl with her arms around Ned's neck and her face buried in his shoulder. He saw only the back of her blue dress and her long, thick black hair from his angle, and his eyes were locked on her, awaiting the unveilment of her face. It was a face he had reimagined hundreds of times in his head, and he was anxious to see if he had done her justice- Or if Ned's words were just blind brotherly praise.

When she let go of her brother and turned around to face Robert, it was as if time stood still.

She was breathtaking. Her eyes were the color of cold steel, yet there was a fire burning behind them. Her lips were a deep pink- perfectly kissable -and her cheeks rosy from exertion. Her black hair was loose and free from adornment and it curled slightly, framing her long face and splaying across her shoulders and down her back. She had begun to walk towards him, per her father's demand to greet Robert, and his eyes blatantly traveled down her moving body.

She was only sixteen, but she had already possessed a woman's figure. She was slender, with breasts that seemed fit her small frame, and her torso tapered down to a thin waist and hips proportionate to the rest of her body. His thoughts already ran wild with what that young figure may look like under all those silks.

She finally stood before him- finally, she was clear to him- and she gave a quick curtsy, "My lord," She said, indifference in her sweet voice.

Robert snapped out of his reverie and swallowed before giving her a small bow. "My lady," He replied.

She did not spare him a second glance. She turned on her heel and rushed to Ned's side, looping her arm in his and began to chatter excitedly, her face lighting up with joy.

His expectations for her were high and took months to build, and she had surpassed them all with only a glance, a curtsy, and a silhouette under a blue silk dress.


	2. Lyanna // Gaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna accepts a challenge that leaves her feeling something she had never felt so strongly before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow character development... hopefully it's worth it. Comment so that I know I'm not writing for myself. ;)

Old Nan chastised her for going for a ride that morning. She said that it reminded her of a tale of a woman from Dorne, who rode horses like a man and died because of it, for her horse was barreling towards a cliff and she got caught in her stirrups- something that could be avoided if she rode side-saddle -and fell to her death. Old Nan was always telling her stories like that, undoubtly following her father's request to discourage her unladylike behavior. "She must have been a terrible rider," she quipped after the old woman finished her tale, "You'd have to be a child to get caught in your stirrups like so." Old Nan grumbled that she was still a child herself, but Lyanna was gone before she could hear it.

She had lost track of time during her ride, and had to scramble back to the keep. She changed clothing quickly, urging her handmaidens to lace her dress up faster (her father demanded she wear one) so that she may greet her brother.

His visits always delighted her, for he loved her dearly and accepted her wholeheartedly. He laughed at her boldness and found everything she did charming, which was a welcome change to her father's chastising and Brandon's japes. That was not to say she was among sour company, for she loved them both, and she had Benjen. They were attached at the hip, her and her little brother- if one wanted to find Lyanna, they need only to look for Benjen, and vice versa.

When she caught sight of Ned she enveloped him in a fierce hug, one that he returned with mirthful chuckles. Her father's booming voice broke off the reunion with a command to greet Lord Robert Baratheon. She let go of Ned begrudgingly, and made her way over to Robert.

His reputation had preceeded him. Her handmaidens had giggled and gushed over him, declaring how handsome he was and how able-bodied. Her brother joked that he had probably fathered several bastards on the road here. But even without these recent remarks, she had known this information well enough herself through the whispers Ned exchanged with Brandon at night, when they thought she was asleep.

Indeed, he was handsome, with a square jaw, broad shoulders, towering stature, and a head full of curls, but also shameless, as she took note of his eyes wandering over her body, blatantly sizing her up. With a weak curtsy and an obligatory "my lord" she ended their greeting and rushed back to Ned's side.

There was a grand supper that night in honor of Robert's arrival, and she sat between Ned and Benjen, where the three of them talked for most of the night, exchanging stories and laughs. Brandon was sitting with a few of his friends, and their roars of laughter filled the grand hall regularly, as they told bawdy jokes and ribauld tales. Her father was speaking seriously with Robert, whose cheeks, she noticed, gradually reddened over the course of the evening, in thanks to the wine he kept throwing back. Regardless, he demonstrated his capacity for it by listening intently to her father's words, but she noted how his eyes strayed to her every so often, and she tried hard to ignore it.

The next few days were delightful, as she spent every waking moment with Ned and Benjen, completely forgetting that she was a girl of ten and six, and instead felt like a child among the two, constantly finding something new to play at. In this regard, it was like every other time Ned visited- Nothing but smiles, day-long rides, and happy exhaustion. She had seen little of Robert Baratheon, as he was having many conversations with her father and ocassionally sparring with Brandon in the training yard with his warhammer, battles which she gazed upon enviously. The two men swung at each other with a genuine contempt, and they matched each other strike for strike. The sparring only ended when the master-at-arms asked them, for the love of the Old Gods and the New, to stop. Only then did the two proud, foolish men cease and go their separate ways.

It was the fourth day where the rhythm was broken with a strange request.

Lyanna had been saddling up her horse for her regular ride with her brothers when Robert approached her. She tried to give a curtsy, but her breeches made the task impossible. Instead, she nodded, and said, "Good morning, my lord."

"Good morning," he said. An awkward silence followed before Robert cleared his throat and asked, "May I ride with you?"

Lyanna furrowed her brows and glanced over at her brothers, who nodded their agreement. She nodded as well, and he smiled warmly and saddled his own horse. Benjen suddenly spoke up, exclaiming, "Lyanna is the best rider in North!" Lyanna shot her brother a look, but he failed to notice as his eyes were on Robert, "Maybe even the South!" She groaned inwardly, but also relished the praise, a smile playing on her lips.

"In the south? Well, we can test that," Robert replied, and his eyes met hers, "Race me, Lady Lyanna."

She was taken aback by this challenge. He did not ask her- he simply commanded it. Lyanna was both amused and angered by his boldness, "My lord," She began, a playful tilt to her voice, "It would be most unfortunate if you lost to a woman. Spare yourself the dishonor." Ned and Benjen chuckled, and Robert's eyes went to them, then back to her. He grinned, and replied,

"Woman? I see no woman," He said, the serious tone of his voice contradicting the smile on his face, "I see a challenge that I aim to meet."

Lyanna Stark had been put on equal footing with a man, and the prospects excited her as her heart already began to race. Not wanting to let her eagerness show, she cleared her throat and mounted her horse, "Very well then," she began, "I wish you luck." She began to lead her horse to the open field outside the keep.

Robert nodded, the smile still plastered on his handsome face. He mounted his horse as well, and followed Lyanna, with Ned and Benjen not far behind. Once they had reached the designated area, Benjen hopped off his horse and stood between the two competitors.

"You two shall ride out to the barn down there," he proclaimed with a sense of importance. He pointed to a brown shack in the distance, a little speck on the horizon, "And back to this very spot."

Lyanna was leaning forward in her saddle, reins gripped in anticipation; she licked her dry lips, her heart already thumping.

"Go!" Benjen cried, giving the signal to take off.

Lyanna wasted no time in whipping the reins, her steed barreling forward with a whinny; it was when she was riding where she felt like nothing could touch her. It was her, her horse, and the wind in her hair that was real and all that mattered. She whispered words of encouragement to the mare, and it replied with a larger stride.

It took little time to reach the deserted barn, and she circled back, catching sight of Robert, who had just reached the place himself, with a hard look on his face. Lyanna suddenly laughed, the wind catching the felicitous sound, and blowing it back to Robert.

She smiled all the way back to her brothers. Benjen cheered for her and Ned chuckled and clapped for her, both proud of their skilled sister. When Robert returned she rode circles around him, her mirthful grin never leaving her face. He shook his head, dismounted, and stood by her horse. She looked down at him from her saddle and awaited his praise.

"You're an excellent rider," He conceded, "Benjen was true in his praises." Lyanna noted that he seemed too happy for one who had lost, and was disappointed that he wasn't a sore loser. She would have liked a quarrel with the proud lord. Regardless, she dismounted and stuck out her hand as a token of good grace,

"You are a good rider," She said, "I would not mind going again with you." She saw his eyes brighten and his smile turn into a smirk. She suddenly became very uneasy. She had begun to retract her hand, but he caught it and shook it firmly, his fingers lingering for longer than they needed to. When she pulled away she searched his face, and he kept her gaze, his blue eyes staring unyieldingly into hers. His look suddenly felt more than friendly, and uncomfortably so. She felt her face get hot in a sudden blush, and she tilted her head down, embarassed. Still, she felt his eyes on her, as if he were looking right through her clothes, scrutinzing her in a way she did not like. She suddenly turned on her heel and mounted her horse again, riding back to the keep and leaving three confused men in her wake.

When she reached the keep, she rushed inside and ran right into Brandon.

"Oh," she muttered, flustered, "Sorry." Her head was down in an attempt to hide the blush that still remained from her earlier encounter. She made to move past him, but he caught her elbow and pulled her back to him, using his free hand to tilt her head up so that their eyes met.

"Are you alright?" He asked, genuine concern in his dark eyes. Lyanna nodded. Brandon, when he was not teasing her, was fiercely protective of his younger sister, and rightly so; she had earned more attention lately due to her shapely figure, and Brandon was the first to crack heads should anyone bother her for it. His temper was a strong force to be reckoned with, and he garnered a sort of reputation for it, this "wolf-bloodedness" her father called it.

He was not satisfied with her response and did not turn her loose. "What is it? What happened?" Of course, he saw right through her.

"It is nothing," she insisted, "Your sister is... a little foolish, is all." She bit her lip, her eyes begging to be let go.

"Is it Robert?" He asked, hitting the nail on the head, "Did he do something?" His grip became stronger, a rage building in him; Lyanna knew her brother was likely running through all sorts of scenarios in his head, from the mild to the extreme.

"He did nothing, he..." she paused, searching for her words, "He lost. I rode faster than him, and he lost. He did not seem to mind." She must have sounded silly, but it was what happened. She could not tell him that for an instant, she felt naked under Robert's gaze, and that she was taken aback by it. Brandon would surely would fly into a rage with the knowledge that Robert had thought of her in a way that was less than respectful, and more than brotherly. And yet, she did not even know that much for sure.

Brandon locked eyes with her a little longer before nodding and letting her go.

Lyanna spent the rest of the day avoiding Robert, ducking away from his stares. She went to bed that night and dreamt of the godswood, a ribbon on the altar, and Robert's intense blue eyes.


	3. Robert // A Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert asks Lord Stark for Lyanna's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more chapters til we leave Winterfell, and meet more people! Comment or kudos if you're reading!

She was incredible, this Lyanna Stark, in more ways than one.

Her beauty was amplified by her boldness, which was evident in her spirit and communicated through her actions. He had challenged her, and she accepted, putting his skills to shame. He wanted her, more than he wanted anything in the whole world. He dreamt of how her body would feel under his hands, with her lips on his during the throes of passion. To hear her mewl his name in pleasure, feel her strong legs around his waist, her fingers in his hair. And just as he imagined loving her, he imagined quarreling with her, the two of them as unflinching as they are, with her throwing things and him roaring at her. She would not step down, and nor would he- there he found a queer delight in that conundrum. She would be an adventure: dynamic, unpredictable, and the only one for him.

He sought her out the day after their ride, asking around until he found her in the godswood, combing her horse's mane. She looked like something out of a painting, a small figure illuminated by the spotted light that trees allowed through, tending to her horse in men's clothing. When he began to make his way toward her, she turned her head in his direction, her gray eyes addressing him with caution.

Oh, how he wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her, whisper into her ear all the things he had held back, to hold her and love her without shame. These feelings came so strongly and suddenly to him, that he found himself calling her name,

"Lyanna," It was the first time he had said her name free of titles and formality, and he found himself wanting to say it again. It rolled off his tongue so naturally, so sweetly, he felt as if he ought to ride out to the tallest mountain and scream it. Lyanna! No name had ever been nearly this sweet. "I have been searching for you since our ride yesterday."

Her mouth opened as if she aimed to speak, but closed again, treating him with indifference as she focused her attentions on her horse again. He made his way to the other side of the mare, so that its head was between the two. Closer to her now, he spoke in a lower voice, "She is beautiful," Lyanna's head poked up to look at him, her brows furrowed, "The horse. She is beautiful." In reality, she was a chestnut with only average appearances at best, but the comment was not truly meant for the horse. A silence settled between the two of them, broken only by Lyanna's voice,

"My lord, I-"

"Robert," he interrupted her, "Please, my name is Robert." She nodded, and continued,

"Robert," she began again, and he felt his heart flutter like a maid's to hear his name on her tongue, "You are like a brother to Ned, and thus you have become a brother to me. I ask that you speak plainly to me, and make your intentions clear," she paused, looking across to Robert to meet his gaze, "I'm impatient. I feel as if you have been stepping around a point with me since you've came and I do not want to dance any longer." Her eyes were cold and unsmiling, yet he sensed an anxiousness in her, a curiosity that demanded to be quenched.

He did not know how to begin to respond to her. What could he say? That she set his soul on fire, that she was all he thought of anymore? He looked into her face a bit longer before speaking again, "I ask that you give me a chance to prove myself to you. I had thought that our race yesterday would take care of that, but..." he trailed off, giving a dejected sigh, "It seems it was you that proved yourself to me. I have never seen such spirit in a woman, such, such..." he did not know what to say, how he could even begin to articulate the feelings she stirred within him, the seed that she had unknowingly planted. The brash, fearless Robert had left him, replaced with a timid, tongue-tied fool. She spoke before he had the chance to,

"I do not care if I am different from the women you've known," she said sharply, "But you did not come here to tell me that, Robert Baratheon." She had seen right through him, this child-woman of ten and six; it was as if she had clawed his chest open and was looking straight at his heart, reading its every beat.

"No, I did not," he said softly, suddenly feeling vulnerable under her gaze, "I simply wished to be near you." Her eyes had widened then. He tried to read her lovely face, but she gave away nothing. He had met many secretive women from all corners of the globe, women with heavy accents that came across the narrow sea, whose pasts were shrouded in mystery, but none perplexed him as Lyanna of Winterfell did now. She was a woman he could not figure out in a night, a week, or a year. She was a woman he needed a whole lifetime to understand, to uncover layer after layer, to challenge him, open herself to him, to know both the good and the bad.

Leading her horse by the reins, she walked away from him now and he swore it would be the last. _'I will not let her,'_ Robert promised himself, _'By the Seven, I will have her, so that I may never have to be without her.'_

That night he drank his fill of wine until the hour was late. Ned had headed up to his room a while back, and the only ones left in the grand hall were himself, Brandon Stark, and his friends, who were warmer than the wild wolf, and took to him quickly. He had laughed and drank with them merrily all the nights before, yet tonight he felt as if his spirit had left his body, trying to lure him elsewhere.

He left the raucous crowd without a goodbye and found himself outside of Ned's room. He did not knock, but rather opened the door and stepped in, where he found his friend at his writing desk, mulling over some documents by candlelight. Ned looked up at him curiously, but Robert spoke before he had a chance,

"I love her."

Ned did not inquire as to who it was. He knew already, but looked at his friend with doubt in his eyes. "You barely know her." 

"Perhaps," Robert admitted, leaning onto the doorframe, "But that changes nothing. I need her," he felt a pang in his chest upon saying this out loud, "I have never needed anything more than her. I'm going to marry her, Ned. I cannot imagine a life without her." He saw his friend was still unsure on the matter, as his mouth was turned downward in a pitying frown.

"You have a history with that line," Ned said plainly, "And a history of women who have heard it."

"The Others take all those women!" He exclaimed loudly, his hands clenching imto fists, "I have found her and I will not let her go. I cannot." He spoke with a newfound vigor, a bright sparkle in his eyes, "I cannot."

The next morning, he requested Lord Rickard's audience, to which the honorable man accepted.

"I ask for the hand of your daughter, my lord," Robert told him with unwavering determination, "So that we may join houses and form an unbreakable bond, bound by blood," Lord Rickard's face did not change, but he did not speak either. Robert continued, "You said it yourself, we serve a mad king and it is only a matter of time before it lays ruin to Westeros, as it already has to his mind. In the words of your great house: Winter is coming. Let us ally ourselves and brace ourselves against it." It was a grand monologue, one he had rehearsed countless times the night before. In his drunkeness he imagined Lord Stark to stand and clap for him, offer him hie daughter and a wedding the next night.

Instead, a silence filled the room and for an instant Robert found himself believing that he would refuse. Had he said something wrong, something foolish? Did he offend the Lord of the North? Robert rolled through all the implications of his words until the tension within him was relieved when a rare smile broke across Rickard's bearded face. He uncrossed his arms to shake Robert's hand, which he returned with a relieved sigh.

"My daughter's hand is yours," he said in his commanding voice, "But she is not ready for marriage, nor is she ready to hear this news. You must wait for her. She may look like a woman, but she has a child's mind and a man's ambitions. The wedding will be held when I feel that she is prepared to be a good wife to you." The lord's words should have put Robert off had Lyanna been an ordinary girl. But she was not ordinary, and Robert would wait a lifetime for a moment in her arms.

"I will wait, my lord," Robert assured him, "She is surely worth it." Lord Stark had nodded before speaking again,

"Do not tell her of this yet. I will let her know myself, tonight." Robert accepted his conditions without argument. "Very well then," the good lord said, two of them standing up, "I am entrusting you, from now, to protect her and be patient with her. She will infuriate you, speak foolishly, and act willfully... but she is my only daughter, and I want for her to be happy." He said this with a tenderness Robert had not seen in the hardened Lord Stark before. His eyes were no longer harsh, but rather kind as he spoke about his daughter. Aye, with those words, Lord Rickard Stark became much less imtimidating.

Robert shook his head vigorously. He wanted to tell the lord all the ways he would make his daughter happy, that she would want for nothing, that he would do anything to please her, but he did not need to hear that. He was a man of honor and required only his word. "I swear to you, she will be happy," Robert said, "I will see to it."

He left Lord Stark's company feeling as if he were in a dream; the world seemed brighter, faces looked happier, laughs sounded louder. He wanted to stop every person that passed him by to let them know his of his joyous news, so that they can share his delight. When he told Ned, who was without his sister that morning, he had smiled for him, but uttered a warning, "There is iron underneath her beauty, and a she-wolf underneath that iron... she-wolves do not like being caged, Robert."

Robert was not a bright man, and possessed no penchant for riddles. He wrote off the comment as Ned being Ned who was typically cryptic and strange. 

It wasn't til later that these words would become painfully clear.


	4. Lyanna // Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna learns of her betrothal and is none too happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I aged Brandon an extra two years than I intended in the first chapter. He is 22... Not that it matters. This chapter is the longest yet; the next chapter will not be Robert or Lyanna, however!

Her encounter with Robert the day before had left her with a bad taste in her mouth. She was used to the affections of men, to their ogling and japes, but not the frankness and honesty he had displayed. She did not want him to want her, to seek her out just so he may be around her, for she did not feel the same. He was a man she could never love, as he could never truly love her. Perhaps he might convince himself, for a day or even a year, but in time he would get bored of her, as he did every woman. 

She did not want that.

That morning, she woke Benjen early to practice swordplay in the godswood. He woke up without a complaint, her sweet little brother, and accompanied her to the forest clearing where the heart tree rested. They searched for sticks long enough to spar with, for the swords were kept under lock and key, per her their father's request. He refused to let her handle a real sword, tourney or otherwise, so she made do with the thickest branches she could find.

Lyanna had felled Benjen for the sixth time (he managed to fell her once, which was a rare occurrance indeed) when Brandon happened upon them.

They ceased their playing to acknowledge their brother, who had a grin on his face. It was a disquieting smile with just a hint of malice- a smile Lyanna couldn't trust. She put her free hand on her hip, and asked, "What are you so happy about?" Her brother gave a chuckle; Lyanna narrowed her eyes.

She _really_ didn't trust that smile.

"You ought to lay those sticks down for good, sweet sister," he jested, "You'll be playing with a different kind of stick soon enough." She sensed a vulgar undertone in his comment, judging by his smirk and that jape, but it still made little sense.

"What do you mean?" She inquired cautiously, unsure if she would like the answer.

"What I mean," he began, the smile never leaving his face, "Is that there will be some... changes in your life after today." Lyanna's mouth went dry at the mention of "changes". She dropped her stick and rushed to Brandon, clutching his shirt in her hands. It was meant as a threat, but instead he laughed, ruffling her hair and infuriating her further.

"Don't mince words with me, Brandon!" She cried, her temper getting the better of her, "What are you talking about? What 'changes'?" He laughed again, amused by her frustration.

"You know how I enjoy mincing words with you, Lyanna," he teased, "Why don't you ask Ned instead? You'll like hearing it from him more than me." Lyanna needed no other persuasion. She let go of his shirt and broke into a run, making her way out of the godswood and to the keep. Once there, she asked a servant if he had seen her brother, to which he responded that he had seen him head toward Maester Luwin's quarters.

She thanked the boy and ran the rest of the way to Maester Luwin's quarters. She threw open the doors, panting like an animal. The Maester had bid her a good afternoon, which she ignored, her attentions focused on he brother in the chair in front of him.

"Lyanna, what are you-" Ned began to say, before Lyanna cut him off with a string of angry questions,

"What does Brandon mean about 'changes'? What will happen to me? Why am I not to practice with my sticks anymore? Will father take away my horse? Why aren't you _answering_ me?!" She was panting again by the end of her tirade, surely red in the face as well. The maester had been staring at her with a puzzled expression, but Ned sat quietly and devoid of emotion, waiting paitiently for her to finish.

He walked over to her to take her hands, which, to her surprise, had clenched into tight fists. He pulled her fingers so that they were splayed, nails no longer digging into her palms; he held them gently, looking softly into her eyes. Her lower lip began to quiver despite herself, and she squeaked, "What is it?

Ned locked eyes with her, sympathetic to her condition, whatever it was. Lyanna noted his hesitation, his almost _pitying_ attitude towards her. She did not like it. She hated it. Tears of frustration came to her eyes, but she did not bother to wipe them away. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ned spoke.

"You are betrothed to Robert Baratheon."

Her hands slipped from his when the room started to spin. She felt as if she had been slapped, knocking the life and breath out of her. For a moment, it felt like she had died, that she was looking at the scene from above, her soul leaving her body to enter the heavens. Swooning, she felt her brother hold her upright by the shoulders, willing her to endure.

"Lyanna, he is a good man," When Ned began to vouch for his friend, Lyanna felt betrayed. Why wasn't he upset for her? When she laughed, Ned laughed; when she frowned, Ned frowned. Why was he not angry, hurt, like herself? "He loves you. He told me himself, that he loves you." Of course he loved her. He would love any girl, pretty or not, if it meant finding a place in her bed. Horrible thoughts of that strain filled her head, and one slipped between her lips,

"How long will he love me?" Her tone was accusatory, acrid, causing Ned to flinch, "After he beds me, will he still love me? When I become fat with his children, will he still love me? When he wanders into another woman's bed, what will he have to say about love?" A part of her knew she was going mad, but she pressed on, "Love is sweet, Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature. He may love me until I am in the ground but I cannot love a man like him. I cannot!" Tears were flowing freely down her face by then. Ned moved to wipe them away, but in her rage, Lyanna pushed him away from her, turned on her heel, and left.

She felt hurt. Her brothers held little sympathy for her, her father had promised her hand without speaking with her, and Robert was a fool who was sacrificing her feelings so that he may wed and bed her. She ran to find her father, to lament and protest her situation. She found him in the audience hall, where he was speaking to a crowd of peasants who had some concern or another. Had Lyanna been in her right mind, she might have been less foolhardy, but alas she was not, and she cried, "How can you!" Everyone in the room turned to look at her, their lady in breeches and with tears on her face. Shocked murmers filled the room as Lord Stark waved his hand to the soldiers around him, a command to clear the room. His gray eyes looked hard upon her reddening face, and not a word was spoken from either one until the hall was empty.

"Damn your brothers," he hissed, "And damn you, too!" Lyanna's jaw dropped, surprised by his outburst. Rickard Stark was a softspoken man who rarely spoke ill of anyone, much less his children, "Have you no shame, running in here, looking as you do, hollering in front of your people?" This was wrong, this was all wrong; he was supposed to open her arms to her, hold her and tell her that she did not have to do anything she did not want to, that she was his only daughter. 

"Father," she began with a shaky voice, "You did not speak with me, you did not ask if I wanted to marry him, if I loved him-"

"Love?" Her father laughed cruelly then, and Lyanna felt a little smaller, "I do not expect you to love him. I expect you to be his betrothed, and behave like a lady, with your wits about you." He didn't understand, but how could he? He had been married twenty-five years to a woman he loved, a woman he loved still in her death; a woman he did no wrong by, one whose bed he was happy to confine himself to.

He was not Robert Baratheon.

"Father, you do not know him!" She choked, a fresh wave of tears upon her, "You have promised your only daughter to a stranger, a man whose ways you do not know-"

"And _you_ know them?" He interrupted, still harshly addressing his daughter, "Lyanna, I know more about him than you do, and I made the decision to let him have your hand regardless." She flinched at the use of her name, which rarely was on her father's tongue; it was always my sweet, dearest, darling- never just 'Lyanna'. It helped to bolster her rage which bubbled over again.

"You have given me to him when he is as he is?" She said in an accusatory tone, "He will love me the night of our wedding, but when morning comes I will be nothing to him. He will have me that night and then have his whores every other night, while I am forced to act like I don't notice that his _cock_ has been seeing every bed but-"

"Enough!" Her father's voice filled the hall, leaving an echo in its wake. He stood, walking towards Lyanna with his hands curled into fists. He towered over her with a face contorted with rage that Lyanna could not bear to look at. She buried her face in her hands and began to wail piteous, childlike wails.

For the first time in 4 years, since she first had her moon's blood, she found herself yearning for her mother. She was surrounded by men who aimed to ground her, bind her in chains at every corner. It was her mother who would understand, who would take her hand and wipe her tears, assuring her it would be alright. Her mother would advise her, soothe her worries, provide her the maternal touch she had been missing for 9 years. She began to murmur, "mother, mother" in between her heavy breaths. Lyanna felt a tightness in her chest as if a cold hand had seized her heart and squeezed.

It was only when she felt her father's arms around her that she began to relax. She buried her face into his leather tunic, wetting it with fat tears as he rubbed her head with his large hands. "Lyanna, my sweet," he said, his voice softer than it was before, "I may have been quick to give your hand, but the rest of you will stay here for a while," he kissed the top of her head, "You are not ready. You are still a child in many ways, and you behave nothing like a lady... though, perhaps, that is my own fault," Lyanna was now at ease again, comfortable and quietly sniffling in her father's arms. 

"You speak of love when you know nothing of it," he held her head now, tilting it up so that he may look into her red-rimmed eyes, "Your mother and I did not love each other from the start. We had planted seeds in each other when we were first promised, seeds that grew over time, through nurture and affection," he smiled then, any last harshness leaving his face, "That is love. It is slow, but the reward lasts a lifetime."

Lyanna sniffled as her father began to wipe at her tears with his large, rough hands. "But why?" She rasped in a tiny voice, "Why have you given me to him?" The words were bitter on her tongue, but accepting. If it was her fate, then so be it.

"Winter is coming," he said, reciting the cryptic words of their house, "And we will need allies if we want to survive it. You are a Stark- it is your duty to protect your family in any way you can."

_'Of course,'_ Lyanna wanted to say, _'Of course it is for family. Of course it is for the realm. I am the sacrifice for a chance at peace in the kingdoms.'_ She stopped sniffling. She could no longer feel sorry for herself, not when noble reasons were behind a marriage she does not want.

She was a Stark. They were meant to be resilient, uncomplaining, stronger than their southern brothers. In her flowed the blood of Brandon the Builder, the blood of her sweet mother, the blood of her mighty father. She was the only daughter to bear the Stark name, as well as the only woman, and she was valuable not only through her sex, but her house.

Lyanna was a Stark of Winterfell, and she would perform her duty to her family. She would not allow herself to be compromised by Robert Baratheon.


	5. Ned // Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned is fine with being the one everyone leans on. In fact, he enjoys it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Ned! This was a harder chapter to write for some reason. Next chapter the heat gets turned up. ;)

Ned did not know who to be sympathetic toward.

There was Robert, his childhood friend, keeper of his secrets, a brother in almost every sense of the word. Robert, who loved Lyanna, who was overjoyed at their betrothal. Robert, a drunk and a womanizer. He was brash, loud, hot-blooded, with a weak sense of responsibility. He was strong enough to physically protect his little sister, but would likely fail in being sensitive to her feelings. He was not a bad man by any means- he was just a man, a young one at that, and that was his biggest fault.

Then there was Lyanna, his sister, who was near and dear to his heart. Wolf-blooded, headstrong Lyanna, who was too willful for her own good. She was bright, unlike her blustering betrothed, with ambitions more suited to a man. It took much to catch her eye, and even more to earn her respect, as proud as she is. Already, she was a handful for her father who was unable to exercise full control over her. This was likely to continue once she married Robert, who Ned imagined would have a difficult time suppressing her wild ways. But he may perhaps enjoy that; Lyanna would be a refreshing change from all the women who melted in the palm of his hand with only a smile and a wink.

After his sister had ran out of Maester Luwin's quarters, Ned heaved a heavy sigh before apologizing to the maester for her behavior. The good man had simply nodded and smiled then, tucking his hands into his sleeves as his often did when at rest; he was surely used to Lyanna's ways, having brought her into the world himself, "kicking and screaming" he had said, fighting from birth.

Ned left the maester to his work to begin a search for his sister. It was a short investigation throngs of smallfolk were being escorted out of the audience hall by his father's men, and Ned safely assumed his sister was the reason. They were whispering wildly with wide eyes, all surely discussing the same matter. He knew his father was in there, along with Lyanna, and Ned knew it best to leave it in his father's capable hands. Granted, he was often soft on her, but Ned knew well he could be firm when need be.

He stepped outside the keep and into the training yard, where Brandon was shining his sword and Robert was smiling foolishly to himself with his warhammer in his lap. Predictably, the two sat on opposite ends of the yard, having formed an unexplainable contempt for each other. Benjen seemed to have returned from the godswood, bearing a sad little frown on his long face. He was seated next to Brandon, kicking the dirt at his feet.

The air was crisp that afternoon, despite the sun high in the sky, and it nipped at Ned's face as it rolled around in the breeze. It was a beautiful day, perfect for riding and reading in the open, and later sleeping in front of the fire. Alas, Ned found himself not wanting to do any of that. His mind was not at peace, a whirlwind of thoughts swirling in his head over matters that were out of his hands.

Benjen, taking notice of him, had ran over to his side with questions in his troubled eyes. He looked up at his older brother and asked, "Is Lyanna alright?" Sweet Benjen, always thinking of his sister. Ned imagined that her betrothal meant the beginning of the end of much mirth in his life, the two of them as close as they are. Ned gave a solemn smile, replying,

"She will be," This seemed to ease Benjen's worries by a little, as his eyes had become brighter, "She is upset at some things is all." Ned shifted his gaze from his younger brother to his older, who now had the shining sword laying across his lap, admiring its sheen. Brandon was at fault for Lyanna's grief, which was meant to occur that night, alone with her father and not any earlier nor with anyone else. When he informed Brandon of her betrothal that morning, he delivered it with a warning not to tell her. Clearly, his words failed to penetrate through his thick skull. He began to walk in his direction, with Benjen following loyally at his heels.

"What happened?" Benjen inquired as he kept a pace with Ned.

"She is betrothed to Robert," Ned answered frankly, his eyes still on Brandon, "She was likely to be unhappy about that from the beginning, but it appears your brother brought about her sorrow earlier than intended." He stopped in front of said brother, who was now grinning up at Ned. He sheathed his sword on his hip before rising, bringing himself to his full height.

"Did she speak to you?" He asked, knowing the topic of conversation before it ever came up. Ned nodded grimly, unsmiling and unamused. Brandon was quite the opposite: he seemed to find the situation quite comical, in a fashion typical of his character. He was always quicker to a joke than he was to rage; but when his rage did come about, it was a fearful sight. It was the wolf-blood in him. "She took it quite well, don't you think?" He jested, "I'm surpised she didn't kill anyone on her way to you." He laughed at his own joke, throwing his head back. It was a guffaw heard throughout the training yard, heads turning to locate the sudden heartiness.

Ned's jaw set, his own quiet form of anger building in him. "You're next," he warned. Brandon's face fell, the joy suddenly leaving him, "Father will soon be looking for someone to wed his first son," he paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. "That is you, Brandon."

Then there was silence. The two brothers seemed to be holding a staring contest, with poor Benjen nervously laying witness. When Robert had come to their side, they paid him no mind, still locked in an unspoken battle. Ned was the first to speak, his voice cold,

"Why did you tell her when I asked you not to?" He saw Brandon tense at the question, "Have you no mind for your sister's feelings?" Robert snapped out of his bliss at the mention of Lyanna.

"Lyanna? Is she-" Robert had begun to inquire about her when Brandon interjected,

"I tried to lighten the situation with a couple of jests-"

"There is nothing funny about this." Ned remarked, as Robert continued to ask questions that were left answered. Brandon's nostrils flared, clearly irritated with the situation he had found himself in. Robert, however, was blind to Brandon's fury, and persisted,

"Where is Lyanna? Is she alright? Does she need me? Is she-" 

"Of course it's not funny!" Brandon roared, a vein in his head throbbing. The outburst silenced even Robert, and the training yard was cloaked in absolute quiet until he spoke again, "Our sister, our _only_ sister is marrying an idiot, a whore of a man, a _Baratheon_! A blasted _southerner_!" He was seething, the wild wolf within him growling, "There is nothing funny about this!"

Robert was not so stupid that the insults went ignored. Alas, he was not a master of wits, and forgoed speaking to push Ned aside and stand toe-to-toe with Brandon. The two men suddenly pulled out their weapons: Robert, his warhammer and Brandon, his sword.

"You should be glad to be joining houses with a Baratheon," Robert seethed, turning the hammer in his hand, "You couldn't find a greater southern match." Looking at Robert now with a fire in his eyes, poised to fight, holding with one hand a warhammer Ned could scarcely lift with two, it was easy to understand the words of his noble house: Ours is the fury. Robert manifested just that.

Brandon was a sight to fear as well; his teeth were bared, lip turned down in a disgusted sneer. Ned saw his chest rise and fall with each heavy, enraged breath. His brother was not himself: he looked upon Robert as if he aimed to tear him to pieces with his teeth rather than his sword. Ned froze at the realization that neither of them were in armor. This was not to be a sparring match- the two men wanted to hurt each other.

"Wait-" Ned whispered, a little too late. The two had already begun to swing at each other, the sound of clanging metal ringing in the air. Ned heard Benjen gasp; he tugged at Ned's sleeve, trying to get him to end their battle, but Ned found himself at a total loss. He felt helpless, watching two of the dearest men in his life attack each other with an intent to kill.

Neither of them had landed a hit when the master-at-arms stormed in and hollered at them to stop. They were blind and deaf to his shouts, however, and continued. A small crowd had begun to form, with the two of them at the center, when, in a flash of steel and blood, Brandon's sword tore Robert's blouse, just nicking him with his blade. Crimson blood began to bloom from his chest as Robert tottered backwards with eyes still ablaze. Robert gave a bellow that filled the yard as he raised his warhammer above his head, and swung.

Ned's mouth went dry, fear bubbling in his stomach. He heard Benjen yell from beside him when Brandon fell to the ground. Robert was panting over him with sweat on his brow and blood on his chest, the fire in his eyes dying down.

He had missed, but just barely.

"Enough!" A commanding voice thundered, bringing with it a silence that was more still than the dead. Everyone's head turned to see his father in the doorway of the keep, weilding a stern expression. Behind him was Lyanna, her face tear-streaked and filled with worry. Ned heard himself sigh, relieved that someone had ended the madness those two were so good at utilizing. Benjen let go of his sleeve to run to Lyanna's side, where he took her arm and disappeared with her inside the keep.

"What is the meaning of this?" His father demanded, clearly unhappy. Ned saw Robert offer a hand to Brandon, who refused it and helped himself onto his feet. The two men awkwardly walked side-by-side to Lord Stark, each likely to recall passionate accounts of the situation at hand.

Ned wanted nothing to do with this. He was unlike his brother and his friend in their tempers; Ned kept a cool head, never raised his voice, was always gentle. He preferred settling matters quietly and without hassle, to carry things out with logic and his honor guiding his decisions. He was not quick to a fight as they were, or rather not quick at all, or as strong. He didn't mind it like that at all. He saw how women admired his handsome brother, how he charmed them through smiles and a golden tongue. It was the same for Robert, though he was more likely to go to bed with them than Brandon was; he had an attractive aura about him, something that naturally drew people to him. Both of them did. They were undeniably charismatic, with the makings of good leaders, but allowed their passions to cloud their reason and prevent introspection.

Ned did not mind that he was not like them, so personable and attractive at the cost of foolhardiness and thick skulls. He was content to be their quiet yet keen counterpart; if anything, he preferred it that way.

He looked at the men from afar, Robert and Brandon with their heads bowed like chastised children as his father scolded them for their idiocy. He knew later that each of them would come to him, rant at him, and expect his sympathy, and Ned would give it to them. Just as with the matter of the betrothal between his elated best friend and his distraught little sister, he would understand both their feelings and lend them him own.

_'Because I am Ned Stark,'_ he told himself, _'It is what I do.'_ Quiet, sharp Ned, who was a pillar of support to all who needed him.


	6. Robert // Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna pays Robert a surprise visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brandon is next! And with him I usher in a new chapter of Westero's history.

In a word, supper that night was awkward.

Tensions were running high between what seemed like everyone at the table. Even Robert noticed that much; it was almost palpatable. Lord Stark was more humorless than usual, Ned more quiet. Brandon did not meet his eye to express his contempt for him, nor did he need to- his disgust radiated off him in waves. Lyanna, his sweet Lyanna, had eyes (swollen as they were from her tears; tears he had unknowingly caused) only for Benjen that night, who was pressed into her side, exchanging words that only the two of them can hear.

Robert himself was hurting that night, in more ways than one. The maester had bandaged his chest despite his declarations not to; it was merely a scratch, nothing that would scar him in the future, but the maester insisted.

There was a different wound he wished he could bandage instead. After the heated quarrel in the training yard, Ned disclosed to him the details of Lyanna's sorrow. _"She is unhappy with the betrothal,"_ he had said almost apologetically, _"It is not your fault. She would prefer never to be married; it is not you she is upset with."_ Ned tried to lift his spirits with words of that strain, but it did little to lessen the blow.

He did not have room for drinking that night and retired to his room more sober than he would like. He plopped down in a chair and buried his face in his hands before heaving an exhausted sigh. The exertion of the day seemed to have caught up with him. With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet again, so that he may change into his night clothes and finally relax. Robert knew his sleep was likely to be fitful, and perhaps even lustful, on account of his beautiful wolf maid. He shrugged out of his leather jerkin, tossing it on the floor. He then pulled his shirt over his head, left only in his pants and bandages when a knock came to the door.

_'Must be Ned,'_ He thought, _'Likely to tell me that it's not my fault again.'_ It was almost as if his friend had known he would lose sleep over the matter, and had come here to put his mind at ease.

"Come in." Robert called out to the door. As it opened, he turned around to toss his shirt onto his jerkin on the floor. When he turned back, he saw Lyanna in the doorway, illuminated by the soft light coming from the hallway and the candles in his room. She was clad in only a cream-colored nightgown, and a thin one at that, as it outlined her body, leaving little to the imagination. Robert felt his heart skip a beat. All his years of experience with women vanished like the children of the forest, and found himself at a loss for what to do. Should he reach for his shirt and put it back on? Is she 'Lady Lyanna' by night, or still 'Lyanna'? Does he smile, wave, nod?

Luckily, she made the first move, stepping into his room and shutting the door behind her. They were alone, together in his room, at night. She was his betrothed, promised to him through body and word. Had she been anything less than the Lyanna he was in love with, he would have her in his bed right now, claiming his rights as her husband early. Yet something held him back. Something pulled him out of his physical desires and instead thrust his heart in front of her, exposed and vulnerable. It frightened him, to feel so helpless, but that was exactly what he was.

He cleared his throat and said, "Good evening, Lyanna." She nodded, silently returning the greeting. Robert was frozen in place, but Lyanna walked to him, until they were standing inches apart. He looked down at her; even in the dim light of the room, she looked ravishing. Robert did not know what to do. He cursed himself for his inaction and decided simply to wait. She spoke first,

"Brandon told me what happened," She reached out her hand and began to run a finger along the bloodied bandage across his chest, "It seems you both behaved like fools today." She smiled softly then, indicating her playfulness. Robert relaxed under her gaze and mustered up the courage to speak,

"Aye, I suppose we did." He was terribly concious on her finger on his chest, and prayed that she didn't feel his heart thump under her touch.

"Would you protect me like that?" She stopped her movements, tilting her eyes upward. She was more serious now, he noticed. Suddenly feeling brave, he took her hand off his chest and raised it to his lips. He brushed her fingers lightly against his lips, just the slightest of kisses,

"I would die for you, Lyanna." He declared assuredly. He had meant it, too. He would die for her honor, her life, her pride; his life was a small price to pay for all of it.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp, and to his surprise, placed it on the back of his neck. Their eyes locked as Lyanna stood on her toes and kissed him full on the mouth. It was a brief kiss that overwhelmed Robert's senses. Lyanna, his Lyanna, Lyanna of Winterfell had kissed him. Her lips tasted sweeter than wine, felt softer than down. Her inexperience had been made obvious when they initially bumped noses, but it only added to her charm.

Like a spoiled child, he wanted more. He wrapped his arms around her, closing any space that was between them. She followed his lead and placed one hand on his bare shoulder, the other still on the back of his neck, fiddling with the curls that sat there. She tilted her head up and closed her eyes in anticipation; she wanted more too.

He kissed her softly, sweetly at first. Their lips danced together in a slow waltz, keeping a comfortable pace. The tides were turned when it was she, not him, that became more aggressive, their liplock becoming heavier, hotter. Not wanting to be outdone, Robert pushed his tongue forward, her mouth yielding to it almost immediately. It wasn't enough for him, nor her, evidently, as he felt her nails digging into his shoulder. Robert ran his hands down her sides until they rested on her hips. He lowered himself, and her, into the chair behind him, assisting her in straddling him without their lips ever leaving each others.

Her night gown was hiked up to her upper thighs, her knees clasped tightly around his waist. Her hands sat at her sides, unsure of what to do with them. He lifted her arms up by her elbows, guiding her hands to his hair. She ran her fingers through his dark curls, before removing one hand to trace his brow with her thumb, cupping the side of his face. She was exploring, trying to find something that would please him. She tugged his hair suddenly, eliciting from him a grunt that disappeared into her mouth.

Not one to be outdone, Robert himself did something daring. A hand ran up from her hip, along her waist, before cupping her breast through the thin cloth of her nightclothes. She gasped but did not shy from his touch; quite the opposite, she leaned into it. He couldn't help but to smile, amused by the lusty maid in his lap. She was unabashed, eager to learn and explore, to please him and herself.

He began to rub her nipple underneath his thumb until it hardened, fully visible from underneath her gown. She gave a soft whimper before she suddenly stopped kissing him, moving her face away from his. She did not make to get off him, but simply stayed as she were, straddling him with fingers in his hair and on his brow. The impromptu kissing left Robert feeling quite comfortable, and perhaps a bit more handsy than he intended to be, but he did not move his hand off her breast- nor did she make him; they sat in silence, eyes locked, with breaths still heavy from passion.

"Have you done this before?" He blurted out, shattering the sweet romantic atmosphere. He knew it was not the most dashing thing to say at a time like this, but the question thrust itself out there. She only giggled, smoothing his cheek with the back of her hand.

"And what if I have?" She teased, a playful smile on her lips. Robert raised his brows, his thoughts running wild at the implications of her words. As if sensing his worry, she laughed, and said, "No, I have not. Was I any good?" Robert relaxed again, returning her smile.

"You were marvelous." He breathed. He kissed her again, a small peck. Invigorated again, his lips moved down from her mouth to her chin, jaw, leaving a trail of kisses down her neck. He moved to unlace the front of her night gown when she caught his wrist. He looked up at her, her brow cocked in disapproval.

"What if Brandon walks in on us like this?" She looked pointedly at the hand on her breast, which he quickly removed. 

"Then he'll have to take back what e said today." He quipped, expecting her to giggle. When she didn't, he took her hand and kissed it, a silent gesture meant to urge her on. She looked unhappy all of a sudden, disconcerted.

"What's more..." she trailed off, averting her gaze. She scrambled out of his lap, pulling her gown over her legs. When Robert stood up she turned as if to leave, but he caught her by the elbow.

"What's the matter?" He asked, noting her red cheeks. She looked embarassed, and perhaps a bit bewildered.

"Ned told me to come here," she said, "He said to go to you and... talk." She chewed her lower lip anxiously, eyes darting to the door. Robert couldn't help but laugh; Ned sent his sister to chat with him, and he feels her up instead. She crossed her arms self-conciously, upset that she was not in on a joke. 

"If he asks, I'll tell him we talked well into the night," he said, flashing her a secretive smile. She returned it, however uneasily. There was something else on her mind; she avoided his gaze, chewing on her lower lip nervously. He wanted to know what was on her mind, for her o speak openly and wantonly, not to hide from him, "What is it?" He inquired softly, pulling her closer to him so that she may feel safer in his presence. She looked up into his face, and asked in a small voice,

"Was that wrong?" Robert didn't understand; was _what_ wrong? Sensing his confusion, she clarified, "What we did, just now... is it wrong?" Oh. _That._

Again he felt a pang in his chest; in his passion he had forgotten that she was a girl of ten and six, a girl her father described as one with _"a child's mind and ambitions better suited to a man"_. She was naïve. He was her first, and she was the lone she-wolf in a pack of males who couldn't teach her a woman's ways. Robert felt strangely guilty, as if he had taken advantage of her, but he could not tell her that.

"It is not wrong," as he said this, he began to convince himself, "You are promised to me, as I am to you. I will touch no other," he paused, emphasizing his words by stroking her soft cheek, "And neither will you." Some of the worry left her face then, but still some remained. She spoke up again, letting go of the words she held onto til then,

"Will you... _lay_ with me before our wedding night?" Her words shocked Robert then, and brought an unfamiliar feeling to his stomach. He could. He could carry her into his bed and lay with her, relieve her of her maidenhead and him of his heated dreams. He had never laid with a girl of ten and six, at least not knowingly, and certain not one so inexperienced and unsure. It was that and the fact that she deserved _more_ that kept him from acting upon his desires. She deserved a gown of silk, a grand feast, a night of drinking and merriment- a wedding. She would come to his bedchamber nude and frightened after the initial part of the bedding ceremony, or perhaps she wouldn't be frightened at all, as strong-willed as she is. Most importantly, she would be there expecting his embrace, his kisses, his love, and to lay with him after much anticipation.

He wanted to do it right.

"I will not," he answered, "We will save that for our wedding night," the anxiety left her face and in its place was contentment. It was what she wanted to hear, though he imagined it was largely due in part of her fear of it. "You have my word." With that, Lyanna stood on her toes to kiss him once more before turning on her heel to leave the bedroom. His eyes lingered on the door from which she exited, still in awe at his betrothed's loveliness and the indescribable effect she had on him. Went she left the room- any room -it was as if she sucked the magic out of it. But when she was there, he was completely smitten, a mere fool under her spell.

He slept well that night, dreaming of the way her calloused rider's hands felt on his skin and the joy it brought him.

She did not come to him any other night afterward, though he stayed up for her, waiting for her lovely body to walk through his doors. After that night, however, he felt a change in her. She seeked him out to ride with her more often; she showed him everything she loved, from the solemn heart tree in the godswood to the blue winter roses that bloomed in the open fields. She smiled at him more, stole kisses when no one was looking, laughed more often around him.

When he took his leave of Winterfell and ultimately, the North, later that week, he shook the hands of Rickard and Brandon Stark (who he still disliked), hugged Ned, and ruffled Benjen's hair. When he came to Lyanna, she stuck out her hand with a playful smile, which he kissed before he did so her lips. When he pulled away she bore a look of alarm that made him want to laugh and kiss her again. Alas, her onlooking family shared her shock and he chose to simply nod at her before mounting his horse and riding away home, where he was sure to think of her often.


	7. Brandon // Like Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon meets Catelyn Tully and, unfortunately, she is everything he expected her to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes some non-canonness. In the books, Brandon and Catelyn had been promised since Catelyn was 12. Here, she is 19. Also, next chapter will have the shift and new characters. You'll see what I mean. Comment and kudos please!

Ned was right: He was next.

Only a few short weeks after the distasteful Robert Baratheon had left, his father came to him announcing that House Tully has offered their daughter's hand in marriage to the first son of Lord Rickard Stark: Brandon Stark. It was a good house, a _noble_ house as his lord father had put it, and their daughter was said to be lovely.

Indeed, she looked quite lovely in her portrait: a petite woman of ten and nine with milky white skin, long auburn hair, and bright blue eyes. Aye, he could do well with a woman like that, not that he wanted to. He wanted to do well with many women.

Though he had teased his sister for her despair at her betrothal, it seems that only now he understood her reasons. It was an attempt to tie him down, to bring an end to his carefree youth, to usher him into manhood. He had been a man grown for seven years, his father had said. It was time for him to settle down.

The days spent preparing for the trip to the Riverlands seemed all too surreal. He felt as if he were walking around in a smoldering heat, everything hazy and confusing, bringing him pains he did not want to bear. Lyanna had laughed when he told her of their father's plans. _"Serves you right,"_ she had smirked, grey eyes flashing with delight, _"The gods heard your japes and have come to put you in your place."_ Brandon's response was weak,

 _"Do not forget they are putting you in yours as well,"_ he had hissed, _"You are but a woman, and it is time you began to act like one!"_ She had laughed again, a noisy, hearty laugh that rang throughout the keep; she knew he did not mean it. Brandon grimaced, though he took some joy in hearing her so merry. Winterfell would feel a lot emptier without her. He dreaded the day that she would marry Robert Baratheon and leave him.

The thought of the southerner resurfaced bitter feelings. He had despised the man before he had even arrived; his reputation was that of a whoremonger with an uncanny ability to father bastards everywhere he went. Brandon had noticed his gaze and how it lingered when he first laid eyes on Lyanna. He noticed his sideways glances at supper towards the serving maids and his sister alike. He noticed how the wine-bearer seldom left his side other than to fetch a new bottle. Aye, he was of the distasteful sort, and he was coming to take his sister away.

The night before his trip Brandon paid a visit to Lyanna in her chambers. He said nothing as he went over to his sister sitting up in bed, held her face, and planted a kiss on her head. She did not say anything, nor did she stir. She simply smiled up at him- a sorrowful smile, he recalled, as if she understood its significance -and held his hand until she fell asleep.

The road to Riverrun was a dull one, as he traveled only with his father and a small number of men. His siblings remained in Winterfell on his father's command, which Brandon understood was another way to dull his penchant for fun. It was successful- the trip comprised of only lonely thoughts. He thought of Benjen on the way, recalling the dismal frown he had been wearing as of late. He thought of Ned too, the way he clapped his hand on his shoulder and offered him some cryptic words of advice that he had forgotten by now. The whole road there, Brandon thought of everyone and everything, from his first love to his first horse, and never once spared a moment on his soon-to-be betrothed.

When they arrived at the keep they were met with Lord Hoster Tully, his only son Edmure, his two daughters Catelyn and Lysa, and one other man whom he did not know, small and dark. Brandon and his father dismounted to greet them.

Catelyn was more beautiful in person than in her portraits. She was shapely, with a sweet face that bore a kind smile. When their eyes met, Brandon expected to feel something, a spark, his heart skipping a beat... but turned away from her feeling nothing.

He felt as if he had been robbed of something. That blasted Robert Baratheon looked once over his sister and became stupid with love. Why did he not feel the same? He would not have minded becoming smitten with her, this Catelyn Tully, so that marriage would turn into a more desirable duty.

Instead, seeing her left him feeling hopelessly dejected, a feeling he was not comfortable with.

Lord Tully spent the afternoon talking into his and his father's ear about the betrothal. It was all that mattered to these two old men, who were giving their children away without allowing them much say in the matter. Brandon listened half-heartedly, but found himself often asking them to repeat questions that had passed him by, much to the chagrin of his father.

By supper, the betrothal was all but sealed. It was to be announced before the gods the next morning, a ritual that was characteristic of the Faith of the Seven. As a compromise, it would be held outside, not in a sept, but in the presence of a high septon. They had no godswood and definitely no heart tree this far south, so their faith for the Old Gods would be confirmed out in the open, under their watchful eyes, rather than in the seven walls of a closed sept. Brandon was less than thrilled; he _should_ be elated, excited even, but found himself, once again, feeling absolutely nothing.

A feast had been prepared in honor of the Starks that evening, in a hall full of mirthful music, jubliant chatter, and delectable aromas. Brandon scanned the room, finding few familiar faces among the crowd: his father's men (none of whom he knew very well), that shifty man he saw when he first arrived (who he did not trust), and the Tully offspring (whom he did not care to know). His only other option was a seat with his father and Lord Tully, company that he was tired of being around. With a sigh, he begrudgingly joined the Tullys: Edmure, Lysa, and Catelyn.

Edmure was a boy of only ten, average in both size and appearances. He had the firey hair of the Tullys, a trait he shared with his sisters. Beside him was Lysa, a slender girl of ten and five with a small red mouth, and deep crimson hair that was tied in a ponytail that reached the middle of her back. It could comfortably be said that neither of them had the extraordinary beauty that their sister Catelyn possessed.

Brandon took his seat across from them. "Good evening." He muttered with little feeling.

"Good evening, my lord." Catelyn beamed, leaning forward almost immediately. Edmure greeted him with a nervous smile while Lysa lowered her eyes demurely. Their acknowledgements were silent and cold, unlike Catelyn's warm smile and sweet hello.

 _She's kind,_ he noted, the beginning of an attempt to convince himself that he was in love, _She's kind and sweet and stunning. _Kind, sweet, stunning. Kind, sweet, stunning.__ It became a chant, a mantra, a prayer for a change of heart.

The table fell silent after his arrival, each of them either too shy or (in Brandon's case) too indifferent to speak. The stillness was broken only by the wine-bearer, who came to Brandon's side and asked if he wanted a drink. Brandon held his goblet up, knowing very well he'd want more than a few by the end of this night.

"How have you found Riverrun, my lord?" Catelyn's chimed, an admirable attempt at conversation.

"Well enough," he muttered before taking a sip of the sweet wine. "The river is beautiful." Yes, the river. That was the extent of Brandon's charm tonight. Chatting with his betrothed about a damned river.

Regardless, Catelyn nodded kindly. "Aye, it is a fine one. Have you many rivers up North?"

 _Not one close enough to drown myself in._ Brandon thought to himself bitterly.

"Sure," he said with a shrug, "But not enough to name our holdings after them." This garnered a giggle from the maid, and a smile from her sister. He was getting somewhere.

As the night continued, so did the goblets of wine, and Brandon felt himself becoming braver. He had been detached from their conversations up until then, though Catelyn tried on a few ocassions to include him. _Kind, sweet, stunning_. He eyed Catelyn intently, until she lowered her gaze with an endearing blush. He leaned forward, lowering his voice as he whispered, "Perhaps you can show me around the lake?" Her eyes shot up to meet his, shocked at his request. Sensing her uneasiness, he feigned a goofy grin, turning his request into a joke. She relaxed, laughing nervously.

 _Gods._ he groaned internally. He was getting nowhere tonight.

Aye, there was something missing in Catelyn Tully, that bit of magic that could possibly grip his heart. It was strange that at a time like this, when he was looking at the woman he would someday marry, that he thought of Lyanna. Lyanna, full of fire and fight, who was comfortable in her own skin, and behaved very unlike a highborn lady. His sister, whose spirit burned the color of Catelyn's red hair, yet who was nothing like her.

Before him was a lady in every sense of the word: demure, well-mannered, softspoken, and elegant. A woman bred for marriage and motherhood, nothing more, nothing less- and Brandon found that terribly boring. He wanted a woman he could quarrel and fight with, one he could frustrate, one who would frustrate him. He wanted marriage to be a challenge, not a daily form of monotony.

He wanted a woman like his sister.

It was then, at the end of Brandon's revelation, that the dark man from before joined them at the table. Immediately, the atmosphere became relaxed, with the Tullys quick to greet and smile at him. He had turned to Brandon wearing a smirk that was more menacing than friendly.

"Good evening, Lord Stark," the man droned, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. He stuck his hand out. "Petyr Baelish," Hesitantly, Brandon.shook his hand, nodding his acknowledgement. "I'm Lord Hoster Tully's ward."

What struck him immediately about this mysterious ward was his eyes. They were a deep brown, almost black, and looked as if they had an arsenal of secrets behind them. His gaze was inquisitive, unwavering, one that bore into him. In short, he made Brandon uneasy. Petyr turned back to the Tullys to chat with them, and Brandon could tell that they liked him very much, as if he were a brother to them.

He felt threatened by his presence, this ward, and, not one to be outdone, Brandon resolved to impress the Tullys. Tossing back the last of his wine, Brandon rolled his shoulders back and began his conquest.

He regaled them with stories of home, of his antics with his friends, his quarrels with his sister, while they listened intently. He told jokes and japes that sent them into stitches, reenacted the battle he had with Robert Baratheon (but changing it so that it was the southerner who ended on his back, and not he), and by the end of the night a small crowd had gathered around the table, all of them enchanted by Brandon's dynamic presence.

Brandon took a moment to glance down at Petyr Baelish, who gazed at him with the same insufferable smirk. He would have liked to wipe that expression off his smug face right there and then, but decided against it. He had won tonight, and that was all that mattered.

Before retiring to his chambers, Brandon reached across the table to hold Catelyn's hand and her eyes widened. He pressed his lips to her knuckles only briefly, but when he looked up her face was a shade of crimson that nearly matched her hair.

"Good night, my lady." He whispered, a comment meant for her ears only. She blinked; a playful smile graced her pink lips, and she raised a brow.

"Good night, my lord." She crooned, pulling her hand out of his grasp with a teasing spark in her eye. Brandon took notice of this; it was the slightest gesture, the smallest change in her tone, but it surprised him immensely.

Perhaps she wouldn't be too dull after all.


	8. Rhaegar // Winter Maiden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar meets a woman in his dreams and is happy to see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dragon prince enters. I had to rewrite this one because it disappeared on me. Comment and kudos!

It was not until after the birth of his first son and second child, his prince that was promised, Aegon, was born that he began to dream of her. It was night after the maester had told him that his wife nearly died giving birth to him, informing him that she would not bear him another child, did she come to him.

He dreamt of a woman of exceeding lovliness. She was a pale creature with tumbling dark curls and a slender form, who brought winter with her wherever she stepped. Cold winds swirled about her, whipping her hair so that it concealed her face. Underneath her dainty bare feet were patches of snow that retreated when her feet left the ground and bloomed when they touched it.

She was like a goddess in a plain white dress, delivering a singular season at her command. In his dreams, Rhaegar was transfixed by her. Some nights he simply stared at her, observing her doing her work as she danced in the snow. _Rhaegar_ she would sometimes call, his name gracing her red lips as she beckoned him to her. Other nights, he would chase her, and she would laugh merrily, running away from him, teasing him. Sometimes he caught her, and sometimes he didn't, but when he did the snow would melt and he would kiss her with closed eyes or bury his face in her dark hair.

He never saw her eyes, not once. Not until tonight.

She stood before him in all clarity, no longer so distant. _Grey_. Her eyes were grey, a color as cold as the winter she so often brought. She smiled sweetly as he held her face and she grew warm under his touch and her eyes shined bright, a fire flickering behind them. He began to pull her to him, but something bumped against him that prevented him from holding her close. He looked down and saw her hands folded over her swollen stomach.

 _Our son,_ she murmured, _Your prince._ At those words she suddenly turned cold and he flinched, pulling his hands away from her. Winter was upon them again, yet the air smelled of salt and smoke. When he looked into her eyes again, he woke.

He jerked upright in bed, his breathing heavy and labored. His head swirled with questions he could not answer, yet one stood out from the rest: Who was that woman? She was not his wife, this he knew for sure. She was milky white where his wife was bronzed. Her hair was darker, more unruly than Elia's mahogany tresses. No, she was not his wife, this winter maiden.

Another question thrust itself to the front of his mind: What did she mean, his prince? Rhaegar had a prince: Aegon, his first son, was Azor Ahai come again, the fulfiller of prophecies. There was no other, only him. It had to be him, for Elia could have no other. Was it not so?

His thoughts were interrupted by his wife, who was propped up on her forearms, awakened by his sudden movement. She laid a hand on his knee. Rhaegar turned his head to meet her sleepy eyes, which were wrought with worry. "Are you alright, my love?" She asked, her voice unable to conceal her frailty. Even when she spoke, she sounded weak. Rhaegar took her hand off his knee and kissed her palm before setting it back down beside her.

"Do not worry. It was only a dream." That was a lie. It was much more than a dream; it was a message he could not decipher. It frustrated him so, for he knew very much. He spent every waking moment of his childhood reading, learning, and even now in adulthood he spared as much time as possible with his books, often reading into the night. Yet all of his knowledge was useless, thwarted by a spectre in his mind.

"It seems more like a nightmare." She whispered, her voice sounding far away.

"No. It was a dream." He corrected. He did not fear the winter maiden; on the contrary, he sought her out, kissed her red lips, held her close. She did not repel him, but rather, she willed him closer.

He felt Elia's hand on the inside of his thigh, rubbing in circles. Her fingers were warm and deliberate through his trousers. He did not understand her sudden tenderness, but it refocused his attention on her. "You are troubled," she murmured, "It is my fault. I have been a cold wife to you for nearly a year-"

"No." Rhaegar cut her off, sensing her intentions. While it was true that he had not made love to her since she had become with child, it was not her fault. Pregnancy made her frailer than usual; on the days she was not ill with some sickness or another, she would come to bed exhausted, though she did not admit it. Some nights he would go to her chamber and find her already asleep with a handmaiden by her bedside. Rhaegar supressed his desires. He was not so base a man that the matter was all that occupied his thoughts, nor was he so indifferent that he did not have his urges. He remained quiet and faithful all the same.

He took her hand off his thigh and held it, their fingers intertwining. "You are tired. Go to sleep."

"It has been two moons since Aegon's birth, it is fine-" she protested, desperately wanting to please him.

"Go to sleep, Elia." He would not allow it. She was weak and weary and he had stirred her from sleep. It would be an injustice to her, and he would wake with regret weighing on his soul.

Nodding, she laid her head back down on her pillow and curled into his side. He laid down as well, kissing her forehead as he took her other hand. He held both of them together in his own, and brushed his lips over her knuckles.

"I'm sorry, Rhaegar." She breathed before her eyes closed, sleep taking hold of her once again.

Rhaegar let his eyes travel over her slumbering form, drinking her in. His wife was undeniably gorgeous. She was hailed across the Seven Kingdoms as one of the most beautiful women in the land, and with good cause. Her soft skin was bronzed, kissed by the Dornish sun which adorned her house's sigil. Long, thick eyelashes cast shadows on cheekbones that were high upon her face. It had been thinner as of late, but did not take from her loveliness. Though now they were closed, he knew her eyes to be a splendid green. He had always found that ironic, how her homeland was so deprived of flora, yet it seemed as if all the green Dorne had to offer found its way into her eyes.

She was not meant to be his. When he was 18, his mother was carrying a child who was meant to be a girl, a Visenya, and Rhaegar would wed her. Instead, she bore a boy, a Viserys, and thus they were forced to look elsewhere for a wife. Her father despised that the Targaryen line would be muddled with the blood of an outsider's, but for once, the king had no choice. When the Princess of Dorne offered her daughter's hand in marriage to Rhaegar, both their fates were sealed.

She had been fragile of health since the beginning, though Rhaegar did not know it then. It was not until one night that he got caught up in his passions that she cried out in pain. He had pulled out of her then, apologizing profusely, and she echoed with apologies of her own. The next day she complained to the maester of a sharp pain between her legs, and the day after she was bedridden with a fever. Since the incident, Rhaegar restrained himself in their encounters with each other.

Regardless, he was very fond of his wife, though perhaps not as fond as he could be. She gave him two children he adored, and he had little to complain about in their marriage.

Yet a winter maiden he had invented in his own mind seemed intent on changing that. Rhaegar recalled how sweetly she called his name, so tenderly, full of love. _Rhaegar. Rhaegar._ It was a lullaby he rehearsed in his head until he succumbed to sleep once again.

The next day he called a meeting with two of his closest friends to share his troubles with them. He sent word to Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington, requesting they meet him on the balcony in his chambers.

Arthur Dayne arrived first, donned in the white armor of the kingsguard with his sword, Dawn, slung across his back. Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, was no small name in Westeros. His strength and bravery was famed even across the Narrow Sea and into the Free Cities. He was simply the best and most capable knight the world had ever seen; moreover, he was a man of his word, taking his oaths very seriously. Protect your king, obey him, hold no land, keep no wife, father no children. Only one man could persuade him to break those promises, and that man was Rhaegar, whose life he held in higher regard than his king's.

"Good morning, my prince." He voice was as smooth as the polished steel he weilded.

"It amazes me how you follow all my orders except for the simplest one," Rhaegar replied, motioning for him at take a seat across him. "Just call me Rhaegar."

Arthur smiled and shook his head, "I swore to protect my prince," he replied with a small smile, "Not to called him by his name." Rhaegar smiled, shaking his head.

Jon Connington entered then, in the red and black of House Targaryen. He was King Aerys's steward, sworn to keep his secrets and manage his agenda, but it was his son who held his loyalty. Jon bore a fervent love for Rhaegar. He lived for him, to serve him and he would die for him if Rhaegar so requested. Jon hated everyone who wasn't worthy of him, even Elia, in the belief that he deserved a stronger wife, one who could bear him many children, one he wouldn't have to restrain his passions around. Rhaegar did not agree with many of his opinions, but that was the price of having an honest friend. But Rhaeger knew Jon to put his prince's feelings before his own, even if it meant facing people he did not like.

Jon took the seat beside Arthur, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. His attentions were on Rhaegar now, eager to hear what his crown prince had to say.

"What I'm about to tell is something I do not understand myself," Rhaegar began, unsmiling and grave, "But it has weighed heavy on my mind, and I can think of no two better people to confide the unknown in." His eyes went to the door, confirming that it wa closed. No one could hear this. It was too delicate a matter.

"I do not believe Aegon is the prince that was promised. I thought he was. For a very long time, I thought he was. But I have sent many letters to Aemon, and it appears I've ignored many other signs," Signs that were present in his own birth, but later proved to be false as well, "Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I tried to convince myself that those signs were there. The salt was the tears of his mother, the smoke from the candles in the room. The bleeding comet... it was not there, but I assumed it was somewhere behind the clouds..." he paused and rubbed his forehead. Thinking about it hurt. It was difficult to accept that he was wrong, but it was a wound that would heal.

"In my dreams I met a maiden, and she brought winter wherever she walked. When I held her, the ice melted off her and she grew warm under my touch," He closed his eyes, recalling their kisses, but omitting them from his story, "She was ice and I was fire," he opened his eyes to look at his friends, who were watching him intently, immersed in his story, "You believe in my dreams, don't you? You believe in the prophecy?" He asked, seeking their affirmation.

"Of course," Jon nodded vigorously, his eyes wide, "I believe in it. I believe in you." Arthur nodded as well, but remained silent.

"Aemon told me there must be three heads of the dragon. My third child will be the prince that was promised," He scanned their faces for recognition, giving them a mournful smile, "You see my problem. Elia can bear me no more," he heard Jon mutter his disapproval, "But the maiden in my dreams carried him in her. She said it was our son, my prince." _My prince_. Not hers or anyone elses. His prince.

"What will you do then?" Arthur asked, unsure where he was going with this. Rhaegar locked eyes with him.

"I need to find her, whoever she might be. When I find her, I will-" He stopped, suddenly realizing his dilemma.

 _What will I do?_ He asked himself, struggling with the question, _Seduce her? And if she will not have me, rape her?_ He couldn't. It was unbearable, disgraceful. It would be a slight on his honor and his family's to bring home the bastard of a woman he raped. Could he do it for a prophecy, one he had believed in since he was a child? Rhaegar shuddered at the thought.

"You will find her," Jon insisted, his hands gripping the edge of the table, "If it is prophesized, you will find her."

Rhaegar nodded and smiled softly. Jon would tell him he could fly to the sun and back and it would not be a lie. He truly believed Rhaegar could do anything.

"My prince," Arthur interjected, worry evident in the lines of his face, "What will you do when you find her?" Arthur was sharp and realistic. Rhaegar admired him for that.

"I do not know," He admitted, noting how the knight's face fell then, "I suppose it is for me to decide," Arthur was dissatisfied with the answer, and Rhaegar knew why, "I will not ask you to do anything that will slight your honor, Arthur. This is my prophecy and mine alone."

Arthur suddenly reached for the sword on his back, unsheathing it and laying it on the table before him. It was a beautiful blade, one as bright as the dawn it was named after, yet was sharp enough to cut through it. He bowed his head before it, laying his hands flat on the table.

"You have my sword, my prince," Arthur declared unflinchingly, "I will do whatever you ask me to."

"You are a true knight, Arthur Dayne," Rhaegar stated solemnly, "Though perhaps you already knew that."

The knight raised his head flashed an easy smile. "It is not true until you say it." Rhaegar laughed for the first time in ages. Once Arthur sheathed Dawn, Jon cleared his throat and stood up abruptly.

"Your wish is my command, Rhaegar," He proclaimed loudly, as if professing his faith to a god, "Whatever it is I might do, whoever it is I may cross, I will do anything for your cause," His eyes flickered to the closed door before whispering, "So that you may be king."

King. It was a title that both attracted and repelled Rhaegar. For him to become king, his father would have to perish, which meant the end of an age tyranny and misery for the people. Smallfolk and highborns alike lived in fear of his father's madness, which had gotten progressively worse, more violent over the years. Pyromancers never left his side, not hesitating to burn whatever and whoever at their king's command. Taking the crown meant killing his father, a man he bore no feelings for. Destroying him was not the part he dreaded; bearing the weight of the crown was.

Rhaegar closed his eyes tight to dispell the unsavory thoughts. He often spoke of rebellion with his confidants who assured him he had the whole kingdom's support. The only person who loved King Aerys II was King Aerys II, for not even his sister-wife and children favored him alive. It was all a matter of timing, however, and now was not the time.

"Thank you, Jon," he finally said, rewarding him with a warm expression, "Your loyalty means the world to me."

That night he dreamt of her again. When he woke, Elia asked him why he smiled in his sleep, and he told her he was content is all.

How could he not be? There was a winter maiden in his dreams who loved him, and his name was sweet on her red lips.


	9. Lyanna // Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna possesses fears she cannot express to anyone but a tree. A fateful invitation reaches Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter thus far. Also, I had intended to be at the tourney by like chapter 5/6 but I'm a sucker for character development. Comment and kudos!

Brandon returned from Riverrun with extraordinary tales and a bloated ego.

He recounted stories of magnificent suppers where all eyes were on him, of beautiful rivers that surrounded the keep, and a duel with a ward who fought for Catelyn Tully's hand.

"There we were, outside under the sun, holding hands while the high septon was muttering something about the linking of the Old Gods and the New when this shifty little man jumped out, sword in hand," Brandon was on his feet, miming the ward's actions. Benjen was watching with wordless delight, Ned with disbelieving chuckles paired with a shake of his head, and Lyanna was laughing hard enough to make her stomach hurt. "'I challenge you for Catelyn Tully's hand!' He yelled in front of the gods and everybody. Naturally, I accepted," Brandon grinned then, and pulled out his own sword, ready to reenact, "And he was an easy foe; it took three swings til he was on his back, and I had the right to kill him, but-"

"Your foolish brother nearly killed someone at his own betrothal!" His lord father suddenly roared from the doorway, a disappointed frown on his bearded face, "Imagine that, before his betrothed and the gods and everyone!" Lyanna was struggling to breathe through her laughs, wiping away at her tear-filled eyes. It was all too much, both the situation Brandon was in and the story he was telling.

Brandon frowned at the interruption and quipped, "It was my right! It was a fight to the death!" When he turned back to his siblings, his easy smile reappeared and he continued, "Just as I was about to plunge my sword into his lovesick little heart, Catelyn was at my side, pleading for his life," Brandon changed the pitch of his voice to a higher one then, "'Don't kill him, please, my lord! He is like a brother to me!'" 

_Gods_ , this was too funny.

He returned to his normal voice, "So I said 'alright then,' and I swung my sword and left a nice scar on the boy's face," Brandon swung his sword out in front of him, before sheathing it again, "Then I said to him, 'do not forget who gave you this scar,'" his voice was lower then, more menacing and cold, "'When asked who did it, you'll say Brandon Stark.' I thought he might turn inside out with fear by then, but I asked him, 'who gave you that scar?'. His eyes were as wide as saucers by then, blood getting into them and whatnot. But he said it. He said my name and crawled away." Benjen gasped beside her and clutched her pant leg. Lyanna's laughs died down into amused chuckles, and Ned was no longer smiling.

"A fool," Lord Rickard mumbled, shaking his head, "You and him both. Just imagine what your brother will do at his wedding!"

"I'll cut off his cock then." Brandon whispered, just loud enough for his siblings to hear. Lyanna doubled over with laughter. He flashed them all a wink before he turned to leave. Lyanna followed him out, rushing to his side and looping her arm in his. He relaxed at her touch, grinning down at her.

"Tell me, Brandon," Lyanna began, with a spark in her eye, "You spoke all this time about yourself; what of Catelyn Tully?" Brandon averted his gaze, his face suddenly turning dark. Sensing he was hiding something, she dug her nails into his arm and pulled him into the room to their right. It was an empty servants chamber, but it would do for secretive chatter. She let go of him to close the door behind them, and stood by it, holding the knob so that he may not leave (at least not without a fight).

A silence settled between the two, each of them staring at each other challengingly. With a tired sigh, Brandon sat down on the bed, head bowed, and began to speak,

"She is kind, sweet, and stunning." He droned emotionlessly, looking down at his hands, "She is everything a lady should be," he paused, and looked up at her again, "Everything you are not." He said this dejectedly, in a tone that was barely a whisper. Lyanna had always been good at reading her brothers, but he made his feelings no secret.

She got on her knees in front of him and held his hands, tracing the lines and callouses along them. "You seem disappointed." It was strange to see him so downtrodden. Brandon was a lively spirit that was not fazed easily. He was always energetic, quick to a jest, and if he was not that then he was in a temper, fuming and hostile, but only for a short period of time.

He looked down at her with a mournful smile. "You'll laugh if I tell you why." Lyanna raised a brow.

 _Of course,_ she thought, _It is my duty to laugh, to make you feel better._

He sighed, finally spilling his troubles, "I do not want to be married. Not to her. Not to a lady." Lyanna chuckled, an uplifting grin on her face.

"Pray tell, Brandon, would you prefer a lord?" He immediately broke out into a noisy laugh, his guffaw echoing off the walls of the room. He ruffled her hair then kissed her hand, before helping her to her feet.

"Perhaps I am just not one meant to be married." he mused, patting beside him on the bed, a motion for her to sit which she obeyed.

 _And I am?_ Lyanna pondered, recalling her own blustering betrothed. "Oh, how the tables have turned. It is now _your_ turn to complain." She was relishing this situation, amused by the comuppance the gods have laid upon her young brother. Secretly, however, she was glad to have someone to share her plight.

"At least you will be married first," Brandon snapped, finding something to one-up her with, "You'll be tucked away at Storm's End with that insufferable Baratheon by the time my wedding comes."

"But your wedding will come." She replied, sounding more grave than she meant it. She did not want to think of her wedding, or his for that matter. To leave Winterfell for good, visiting only every once in a while, being separated from her family, her boys. She could not bear the thought without tears springing to her eyes.

No matter how many sons she would bear Robert Baratheon, no matter how fond he was of her or her of him, her heart would rest in Winterfell. She was born here, raised here, watched her mother deteriorate and die here. It held memories so precious, so dear that no amount of time spent at Storm's End could possibly fill the hole Winterfell would leave behind. Yet, she had no choice in the matter. She would leave; that much was certain.

"Did you talk to her, alone?" Lyanna whispered, her tone shifting from merry to serious. She recalled her "talk" with Robert, an event she shared with no one.

Brandon shook his head. How typical of her brother. He would throw his weight around and boast of his prowess in all matters, yet was as feeble as a kitten when it came to simply talking to the girl he would spend the rest of his life with.

"How do you expect to like her then?" Lyanna asked. Brandon shrugged, the matter clearly not one of much interest to him. She knew very well that it was useless to persuade him to do something he not want to do. "Very well, then," she sighed, giving up, "But once you are married to her, you will treat her as something more than a body to warm your bed," she grabbed his face and turned it to her so that their eyes met, "Promise me you will make her happy," he nodded, but she squeezed his face, unsatisfied, "Say it." She demanded.

"I promise." he mumbled semi-incoherently, thanks to the hand that was gripping his face. Lyanna nodded and let him go. At least she could make one married woman happy.

They both went silent, the two of them contemplating their fates. Lyanna had many worries weighing on her mind, yet she found she could share them with no one. She was a girl. No matter how she behaved otherwise, she was a girl in a woman's body and she possessed a woman's fears.

She recalled having her first moon's blood when she was ten and two, waking up with bloodied sheets that she tried to hide. It was a handmaiden who caught her scrambling to get rid of the linen, running around in a panic, unsure of what it meant. It was from this servant-woman that she found out what it meant, that it would happen to her every moon. Her father and brothers behaved differently around her then, more hesitant to touch her or speak to her. Evidently, they had known, and it burned her up that they were acting as if she carried a plague. It took an outburst at supper that ended in tears and her family, one by one, came up to her room to rub her back and wipe away her tears. Do not treat me different, she had cried then, I do not know what it is to be a woman.

The situation she was in was different, yet evoked similar feelings in her. She possessed fears about her marriage that she could not express, for they were womanly fears, and there were no women she trusted to express them to. The bedding, laying with her husband for the first time and whether it hurt or not, what was expected of her after their wedding night, how often she would see her family here, in Winterfell.

Whether Robert would stay to one bed, and if he didn't, how many bastards she'd be forced to ignore.

 _I do not know what it means to be a woman._ Her words were just as true now as they were 4 years ago.

"Lyanna?" Brandon said, his voice small as if an indiscernable weight pressed upon it.

"Yes?" She replied, in a voice that was equally meek.

"I will miss you when you go." When his eyes met hers, Lyanna thought she might cry.

"I will miss you too." she squeaked, feeling an itch in the back of her throat. She wanted to throw her arms around him, to tell him that she would spend every day in Storm's End looking out her window and dreaming of home, of the family she left for a man she never wanted to marry.

"If he ever hurts you," Brandon hissed, his voice drastically different from before, "If he forces you to do something you do not want to do, if he ever lays a hand on you out of anger," fury lended him strength, his voice rising with each word, "You let me know and I'll ride down to Storm's End, drag him out of his castle, and cut off something precious to him," he suddenly smiled, "After he apologizes to you, of course."

Lyanna laughed. It was all she could do to stem the tears that threatened to fall. That is what she would miss most about Brandon, how he managed to ease her mind with a jest that sent her into stitches. He ruffled her hair before leading her out by the hand.

Lyanna asked Brandon to ride with her, an invitation which he turned down, insisting that he had to go practice his swordplay so that he would not miss when the day came that he'd have to cut a southerner's balls off.

Thus, she went riding alone. It was an uneventful ride with no clear purpose, just an opportunity to clear her troubled mind. Such a thing did not happen; on the contrary, her head spun with more thoughts, more scenarios, few of them pleasant.

She imagined the long ride to Storm's End for her wedding, how emotionally and physically draining it would be, and the merriment that was meant to follow. Lyanna could not see how a wedding could make anyone but the groom happy. Once the ribbon bound their hands together, it would bind her soul as well. You must love your husband, let him do what he likes with you, give him sons, and turn a blind eye to his misdoings. Put his happiness before your own, then, once you bear them, put your children's happiness before your own.

The part that saddened Lyanna the most is that she saw her future in this manner with all clarity. She may fight and plead and protest, but this was her fate. Only death or divine intervention could prevent it.

Lyanna wanted to love him. It would be easier to give her freedom up if she loved him. Her mother was a content wife because she loved her husband, and Lyanna wished the same for herself. Alas, while the gods had fashioned her in her mother's image, they did not do so in her manner. Her mother was a true highborn lady, not a trace of wildness in her blood. How she came to birth an unruly she-wolf like Lyanna was a mystery.

When she returned to the keep, she found her brothers huddled around their father in the antechamber that served as his office. Her brothers were chatting excitedly, smiles all around; even Ned was buzzing with elation, the quiet wolf no longer. When she entered, they all turned their heads and spoke at the same time. Lyanna's gaze flitted frantically between the three of them, catching only a few of their words.

"A tourney-"

"The royal family-"

"Knights!"

"Enough!" Her father thundered, silencing the exuberant group of boys. He cleared his throat before motioning for Lyanna to come closer. "We have been invited to a tourney at Harrenhal, held by Lord Whent." At the mention of a tourney, Lyanna's heart began to race. She had yet to see one herself, at least not a true one. Men, among them being Brandon, rarely trained at jousting in their training yard, but when they did Lyanna was present from beginning to end. "The royal family will be in attendance, along with all the lords and ladies of Westeros," her lord father sighed, "So it appears we must all go." Her lord father remarked gruffly, slighted that he must leave Winterfell without a Stark.

"A tourney!" Lyanna cried, the news dispelling any discomforting thoughts from before, "When, father, when will we leave?" She did not wait for an answer as she stepped to his side and took the scroll from his hands.

"In only a couple of weeks, I fear," he replied, shaking his head, "The road to Harrenhal is a long one." Overwhelmed with joy, Lyanna leaned over and kissed her father on the cheek.

"Oh, this wonderful!" She breathed, turning to her brothers, "If the crown will be there then so will the kingsguard, and-" gasping suddenly, she grabbed Benjen's arm and looked into his eyes, "Perhaps the Sword of the Morning will be there." The legendary Ser Arthur, finest knight in the land, and she may lay eyes on him.

"Perhaps he'll fight!" Benjen exclaimed, sharing her excitement, "Perhaps we'll see Dawn!" Had Lyanna been ladylike at all she may have swooned. She only dreamed of seeing the knight swing his two-handed greatsword, a blade that shined as brilliantly as its name.

"The prince will be there," Ned interjected, "Prince Rhaegar is a fine knight as well." Ned had spoken of the crown prince before, and always in an admiring tone. Lyanna herself had heard whispers around Winterfell about the silver prince; he was said to be honorable, gentle, smart, and breathtakingly handsome.

"They say he spends most of his days with his nose in a book," Brandon sneered, "He can't be _that_ good."

Ned shook his head. "He is well-read, but that does not make him weak," he turned back to Lyanna, who was eager to hear more about this mysterious prince, "He will perhaps become one of the greatest kings we'll have, as soon as his father-" he paused, cutting himself off, before curtly stating, "He is well-liked."

"Aye, the prince is strong and brave and honorable," Brandon quipped patronizingly, "All the smallfolk cheer for him and all the women swoon over him, yet he prefers the company of his books over the praises of his people." He smirked then, and Ned just shook his head.

"Well, if he fights, I'll be glad to see it." Lyanna said, breaking the tension between her two older brothers. Benjen grinned beside her, rocking on his heels like an impatient child.

"I cannot wait!" He cried out, unable to keep his enthusiasm a secret. Ned and Brandon laughed at his excitability and Lyanna kissed her sweet brother's cheek.

"It will be a long trip." Her father warned wearily, his voice already tired. Lyanna threw her arms around her father and thanked him a million times over until he heaved a sigh and returned her embrace. Though she did not want to admit it, this tourney would likely be the last memory she'd share with her family, as a Stark. It would be their last trip together before her wedding. It was her first, and last, tourney with them.

She visited the heart tree in the godswood afterward. Kneeling before the altar, she clasped her hands and looked up at the grand white weirwood. It was a large tree, with a face that was said to have been carved by Brandon the Builder himself, with long outreached branches bearing leaves the color of rubies. Though its eyes were closed and it mouth turned down in a mournful frown, Lyanna had always felt like it listened to her, lending her a sense of security comparable only to her father's warm embrace. It did not judge her, show disapproval, or pity her. The tree simply stood in silence, blind to her condition, but never deaf.

 _The gods always listen_ , Old Nan had once told her, _They may not always answer, but they listen._

Lyanna prayed for a safe trip, a wonderful tourney, and, as she always did, the happiness and health of her father and brothers.

She prayed that nothing would mar it, that it would be the most marvelous event they attend together. She had begun to ask for a good wedding but stopped halfway through. _Do not worry much about that one,_ she had told them, _it is not what is most important._

When opened her eyes she could have sworn she saw the heart tree smile.


	10. Robert // Gazing Back

He had tried to write her letters. Many a time Robert Baratheon sat down, quill in hand, with a paper in front of him, yet he found it difficult to write.

At the start of his endeavor he struggled with the greeting. He did not wish to be too formal, yet not so relaxed that he came off as uncaring. Lady Lyanna, My Lyanna, Lyanna, Sweet Lyanna, My Lady- none of them would do. He struggled with this for many nights before settling on 'Dearest Lyanna'.

So every night he pulled a new piece of paper, wrote 'Dearest Lyanna', and stared, willing words to jump off his quill and onto the parchment. Robert was not an eloquent man, nor a poetic one. Love letters were not something he was experienced in; most women he met, he only met once, and the others weren't worth a letter. A coin, perhaps, but not a letter.

It was a challenge, to put into words his feelings for his betrothed, to express how he yearned for her. He often visited the memory of the two of them in his chambers as a form of inspiration, recalling her knees tight on his hips, their lips locked in a heated kiss. Yet it seemed whenever he wished to write about it, he only ended up with clumsy words and an itchy palm.

Tonight was no different. Robert heaved a frustrated sigh as he tapped his quill on the side of the desk, at a loss for romantic words for his Lyanna.

What could he say to her? _Dearest Lyanna,_ he had begun to despise that greeting, _The memory of my hand on your breast ignites a fire in me._ It was useless. He knew his feelings for her, and he had tried to make them clear to her through his actions. Wordplay was a bard's work, a poet's- certainly not Robert's.

Of course, it did not help that he hadn't touched a woman since Lyanna. It had only been three moons since he left Winterfell, yet it felt as if he had taken a lifetime vow of celibacy. What's more, he often dreamt of Lyanna standing in his chambers, dressed in nothing but a thin robe that left little to the imagination. Yet everytime either of them went to take it off, he would wake up, sweaty and with a throbbing cock.

He groaned aloud and threw his quill across the room before burying his face in his hands. Another night, another fruitless letter. Crumbling the paper up, he added it to the existing pile of rejected (and mostly blank) letters. Robert loved her. He knew he loved her. He loved her eyes, hair, lips, and breasts. He loved that she was marvelous rider (and often pondered if such a skill carried over in bed). He loved her fire, her fight, and her loud laugh. Strangely enough, he even loved how she looked in men's clothing. Perhaps she was not a perfect lady, but he did not care. Westeros was overflowing with well-mannered women; it was the fiesty one he wanted.

More than anything, he wanted to write all that in a letter.

Giving up for the night, Robert got out of his seat at the desk and made his way over to the balcony. He leaned his arms on the rails, leaning forward to admire the bay where briny waves crashed against the rocky bluff below. After leaving Winterfell he traveled to the Vale, where he notified Jon Arryn of his betrothal, of his alliance with the North. Jon congratulated him and in the same breath told him that he was not to stay at the Vale any longer. _You are to be the married Lord of Storm's End soon,_ he had said, _You cannot live with your warden any longer._ Robert had been sad to go. He'd spent his entire childhood here. It was where he went when his mother and father died. It was where he fought, fucked, and drank for the first time. It was where his favorite bastard live, a sweet dark-haired girl-child named Mya, who had his blue eyes and her mother's pretty mouth. It was where he met Ned, where he was raised alongside him as a true brother.

But Jon Arryn was right, as he always was. While Robert visited Storm's End often (usually when Ned visited Winterfell, as he grew terribly lonely without him) to see his brothers, he spent most of the year at the Vale. Now that he was getting married, he'd have to stay for good.

Robert did like Storm's End. The steward ran most of its affairs, and he only asked for Robert's approval as a customary gesture. He loved his brothers, Stannis and Renly, who were complete opposites. Stannis was cold and sullen where Renly was warm and exuberant. Stannis was always working, holed up in an office with the steward, whereas Renly, who was a spoiled child of only five, enjoyed playing and romping. Whenever Renly threw a tantrum, Stannis was quick to yell then clear the room to let someone else take care of him. Robert often threatened to give the child a good strapping, but often found himself tossing him in the air and tickling him. In short, they were horrible surrogate parents.

_This place will be different once she's here._ Robert told himself. Lyanna would brighten the halls of the keep, bring a touch of femininity to a very masculine household. She might want to change or rearrange things, and he'd let her. Then in a few years, the voices of their sons will ring throughout the keep in the form of cries and laughter, and Renly would have a mother again. He'd wake up every morning to her sleeping form warming his bed, where she belonged. He could hear his name on her soft lips; _Robert_ , she would cry, murmur, yell, sob, scream, and he would be glad to hear it any which way.

Heaving a contented sigh, Robert stepped off the balcony and into bed, where he dreamt of her again, and a robe he could never see under.

The next morning the steward handed him a letter, an invitation to a tourney where the royal family and all the great houses of Westeros would be in attendance. His heart fluttered, knowing very well that meant the Starks would be there too, and his dearest Lyanna with them. Robert announced the news to his brothers, and both reacted in very different ways.

"I don't want to go." Stannis grimaced, ever the loner.

"They're inviting us as a _house_ , Stannis." Robert protested, though he knew it would do little good. Stannis was not one for changing his mind.

"Can I go?" Renly piped up, his eyes wide with excitement, "Please, Rob, may I go?"

Robert looked down at his little brother with a frown. He would be a handful, and what's more, he would likely not enjoy the trip at all. Renly never stuck around when men practiced in the training yard, always running off to play at something else.

"Renly, it would be better for you to stay-"

"No!" The child screamed before bursting into tears. Robert groaned and took the sobbing child into his arms. He used a finger to lift his chin up, so that he met his red eyes.

"You are staying," Robert asserted, trying to look hard and unmovable, "When I return, I'll bring you toys and sweets and pretty little things for you to play with." At the mention of new playthings, Renly ceased his crying and broke out into a grin.

"You promise?" He sniffled. Robert nodded and the boy cheered and wriggled out of his arms.

"You spoil him." Stannis remarked, the perpetual grimace on his face.

"Aye, I do," Robert admitted with a shrug, "But so does everyone else," The servants all fawned and fussed over the little lord and denied him nothing. It was more their fault than his own, really. "Are you sure that you don't want to go?" He asked his brother, who nodded.

"I do not care for tourneys," Stannis shrugged, and Robert did not press him further. The important thing was that Lyanna would surely be there, that he would lay eyes on her again and tell her- no, _show her_ how much he had missed her.

\---

Robert had been camped at Harrenhal for nearly three days when he heard word of the Starks' arrival. Immediately, he mounted a horse and rode off in the direction of the northerners' camp. They were an easy crowd to find, not through their men (as they did not bring many), but through the banners that had been raised, dark and proud, donning the fearsome direwolf of their house. It's been said that the Starks experienced little conflict with other houses through their quiet pride; they did not boast about their house through hollers and yells, but rather by letting their honor silently speak for itself. Yet looking at their banners now, Robert felt as if they spoke volumes.

He caught sight of Ned from behind, overlooking the men raising their tents. Robert dismounted quickly, calling out his name. Ned turned and grinned at him, and the two men embraced.

"I've missed you, brother!" Robert called out, laughing with delight. Indeed, it had been a long time, and it overjoyed him to see his dear friend.

"I've missed you too." Ned said, before the two of them broke apart. His friend had not changed much since Winterfell, though he seemed less sullen than usual. Robert's eyes darted around the encampment, searching for a certain someone. Ned noticed this and answered his unasked question, "Lyanna and Benjen have already gone off to explore."

Robert frowned. It was a crushing disappointment, as he had their reunion all planned out: he would find her at her camp, hold her face and kiss her lips before murmuring something romantic enough to melt her heart. _So much for that._

"Well, if it isn't Robert Baratheon," a voice boomed from behind him. Turning, he found it was none other than Brandon Stark, armed to the teeth with every ounce of arrogance in him. Robert scowled at once, digging his nails into his palms. "I had nearly forgotten you'd be here. A pity; I was quite content with forgetting." He smirked, his eyes sparkling deviously.

Robert knew it was a bait, but it was one he couldn't ignore. He raised himself to every inch of his six-and-a-half feet, meeting eye-to-eye with the eldest Stark son. "You seem quick to forget; tell me, Stark, have you forgotten how you lost our duel and landed on your back?" The unpleasant reminder dissolved the older man's smug smile into a hateful scowl. Robert turned the knife with one more quip, "Or shall I remind you?"

"You watch yourself, Baratheon," Brandon hissed, his eyes turning cold and hard, "Next time I won't be so easy to topple." It was a threat, and Robert took it as one, though this time he did not act upon it. With a renewed hatred, Brandon parted, and Robert was glad to see him go.

Beside him, Ned chuckled mirthfully. Robert whipped his head in his direction, befuddled. "What?" He asked cautiously.

"It astounds me how you two can hate each other when you're so much alike." Ned smiled, throwing an arm around his neck. Robert stared at him incredulously.

Alike? What could he have in common with a cocky, short-tempered, rude first son of a lord?

"You're mad," Robert retorted, shrugging off Ned's arm, "We couldn't be more different."

"Aye, if you so say..." Ned chimed, the amused smile still plastered on his face.

His pride hurt, Robert changed the subject. "You are among the last to arrive," Robert pointed out, "There have been people who have been here for nearly a fortnight."

"Harrenhal isn't exactly a day's ride out from Winterfell," Robert noticed how Ned's voice had an edge of weariness to it, evidence that the ride was a long one, "But we are not late; the festivities start tomorrow."

"Aye, that they do," Robert affirmed with a nod of his head, "There won't be much tomorrow. It is the jousting that will be the sight to see." The jousting tournament was to take place in the last five days of the 10 day tourney. He himself had not practiced much at jousting, and debated whether or not he should join the ranks. It was said that the winner of the joust would crown a Queen of Love and Beauty, a lady of his choosing, and that she would keep the crown as a token of the knight who fought for her. Naturally, Robert had wanted to crown Lyanna, but found himself giving into the greater fear that he would be unhorsed and embarassed in front of his lady love.

"Aye," Ned agreed with a shake of his head, "Imagine that, with the Sword of the Morning and Barristan the Bold and the prince in attendance. We'd see quite a show."

Indeed, with men like that possibly competing, Robert would more likely shame Lyanna than charm her.

The two men spent the rest of the afternoon together, riding around Harrenhal and greeting various lords of various holdings. At one point they aimed to greet the king himself, but caught news that the king was not to be approached, that he was still agitated from his ride and was not likely to be a gracious host.

Instead, they found Jon Arryn at his camp, and the two of them happily greeted their warden before inviting him to sup at their table tonight.

"Who is in attendance with you, Ned?" Jon asked.

"My siblings, Brandon, Benjen," Robert sighed internally at the next name, "and Lyanna."

"Your lord father did not attend?" Jon inquired with a raised brow. In all his excitement, Robert himself forgot to ask about the father of his betrothed, and listened to Ned with rapt attention.

"My lord father had planned on coming," Ned said, his familiar frown returning, "As he feared that his absence would appear as a slight to the king. He had planned on speaking to some other northern lords here as well, for diplomatic reasons, but just a few days before we aimed to leave, he made up his mind to stay."

"Why?" Robert asked, the reason still not making itself clear.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." He replied gravely, the words sounding more like a threat than a statement. It was then that Robert fully understood that, indeed, there was a quiet pride to the Starks.

"Ah, so I see," Jon nodded sagely, "That's unfortunate. I'm quite fond of your father. However," he smiled warmly then, "The last I saw of your siblings was when your mother passed, and your two youngest were only children then. It would be a pleasure to see them again." Ned's gaze fell somber at the memory. Robert remembered the occassion; it was nine years ago, and the two of them were boys of ten and one. Jon and Ned departed to Winterfell to pay their respects while Robert stayed behind. He recalled Ned returning with a mask of grief that jarred Robert to the bone. Speaking to him was difficult for nearly a month, before one day he woke up smiling and Robert realized that his mourning had passed, at least on the outside.

Attempting to cheer him up, Robert nudged Ned, "Tell him how lovely your sister is." His friend's face brightened at her mention and he spent quite some time chattering about her as he used to do with Robert back at the Vale.

When night began to fall and the torches began to be lit up, the bells were rung for supper. Ned had wanted to stop by his tent for a moment to check up on the encampment, and Robert begrudgingly went along, despite his growing hunger and a thirst for wine.

They dismounted at the camp, and Robert scanned his eyes over it, the crowd considerably thinner. It was then, in the midst of his searching, that he saw a woman's form from behind, clad in a dress so pale it's color was apparent in the dark, with tumbling black curls covering the back of it. He knew it was her without looking at her face. It was Lyanna, his Lyanna, dearest Lyanna.

His hunger was forgotten as it was replaced with a stronger feeling, one more powerful. In what seemed like only a few strides, he was behind her, and while he ached to put his hands on her hips and twirl her around, he knew it was not the time nor place.

"Good evening, Lyanna." He finally said, struggling to sound unperturbed by her presence. At the sound of her name, she turned around and granted him a smile that squeezed his heart.

"Robert!" She exclaimed, his name suddenly sounding exceedingly lovely. Unable to abstain any longer, Robert placed one hand on the small of her back to pull her to him and the other on her chin, tilting it up so that their lips met. She yielded, putting a calloused hand on the back of his neck, twirling his curls around her finger. When they pulled apart, they smiled at each other, and she wriggled out of his grasp and tilted her head to the person she was speaking to before.

The person was the youngest Stark, Benjen, who was beaming nervously up at Robert. "Good evening, Robert." He chimed, his boyish face lit up with admiration.

"Evening, Benjen," Robert replied before ruffling his black curls. He turned his attentions back to Lyanna, whose eyes were on her brother again. "I was just heading out with Ned to the dining hall for dinner. Will you join us?" While he was addressing the two of them, the question was directed namely at his betrothed. _Come with me,_ was what he meant. _Come with me and don't leave my side tonight._ The two of them nodded their approval, and seconds afterwards Ned joined them, giving his siblings a kind smile.

As they began to make their way to the hall, Robert reached for Lyanna, with the intention of circling an arm about her waist and walking her there. She was quick, however, and flitted to her younger brother's side again, and all Robert got was a brush of her silks on his fingertips.

Even outside his dreams she was unattainable.

At the dining hall they all sat together; Lyanna and Benjen on one side of the table, Ned and Robert on the other. The hall was buzzing with chatter, interrupted only by the occassional booming of laughs. Wine-bearers and serving maids rushed from table to table, adding to the frenetic hustle and bustle around them. It was these types of gatherings Robert enjoyed best, and it could certainly be said that he had overindulged in the past two nights. The first night here, Robert took part in a raucous drinking contest, which he won handily against some young squire who wanted to prove himself (but instead vomited until he passed out). Both nights Robert found himself at the center of a crowd of boys and men alike, as he told drunken stories of his "conquests", and cracked jokes that sent them into stitches.

Even in his inebriation, he did not let slip Lyanna's name. He partook in telling bawdy tales and shared in the ribald humor, but he kept his lady love a secret. She was his, and no other had a right to think about her.

Yet Robert felt something strange happening in the dining hall. Looking around, he found many men and woman look her way, whisper, laugh, nod. Some had the gall to wink, or make some obscene gesture or another. Lyanna seemed to notice this as well, as she wrapped her arms about her middle and scooted closer to her brother. Robert could not understand it. Why were they staring, whispering? Were the words cruel or kind?

"Where's Brandon?" Lyanna asked in a small voice. She looked slighted by all this attention, and was seeking protection from her older brother. Robert's heart ached. _I'm here,_ he wanted to say, _Let me protect you._

"I do not know." Ned admitted, his eyes scanning the hall. He noticed, too. As soon as the words left his mouth, fanfare began; trumpets were blown to the king's tune, and a herald called,

"Entering, the honorable kingsguard!"

All heads turned away from Lyanna and in the direction of the herald instead. Through some doors to the left, each knight entered one by one, glowing in their white armor, their honor and valiance almost visible in an aura. The Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower entered first, followed by Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Lewyn Martell, and Ser Jonothor Darry all courageous and stalwart, and the hall cheered loudly for them. Yet as one knight entered, the noise in the hall seemed to double. It was Ser Jaime Lannister, youngest member of the kingsguard, and by looking at him one may take him for a prince. He was a young boy, younger than Robert, with a head of golden hair, sparkling green eyes, and a strong square jaw. Robert had heard stories of him, that he was knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne himself, that he was more capable than some of the older knights, even. The boy was a Lannister, though, and it was perhaps that name that granted and condemned him to his station.

After him entered Ser Arthur Dayne, and the hall erupted with cheers. Lyanna was on her feet then, clapping eagerly and murmuring things in Benjen's ear. Aye, even Robert was inclined to holler for a legend such as him.

After the knights found their places in the hall, bringing light to their tables with their venerable glow, the herald announced the royal family.

"Entering King Aerys, Second of his Name, King of Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." What a long string of titles for a man so unworthy. He was known as The Mad King to all, with none of this distinction.

The masses clapped out of obligation, but none called his name as they did for the knights. He was a gaunt man with dark purple eyes that darted frantically from one table to the other. The Queen Rhaella followed, her lilac eyes cold and her mouth set in an emotionless line.

As the herald began to announce the nexr man, the crowd cut drowned him out with applause and cheers that were deafening, louder than anyone else's.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Dragon Prince entered, and if the knights had glowed, then he shined. He was tall, as tall as Robert, yet his regality made him seem a giant. Silver hair reached past his shoulders in loose curls, framing the sharp lines of his face. Bright lilac eyes scanned the crowd, and the sound of a hundred maiden's hearts fluttering filled the hall. His mouth was turned up in a small smile, a rare sight for the melancholy prince. Princess Elia, his frail Dornish wife was on his arm, mustering a smile that stretched the taut skin on her face. She was lovely, but appeared as if she would break at any moment.

The yells did not cease until Rhaegar took his seat, yet it seemed like a lifetime. Robert's gaze went from the prince's to his Lyanna again, who was staring at him in wordless awe. An unexpected rage filled Robert's veins, and he wanted to shake her, to force her to look at him, not this walking fairytale. When his eyes darted back to Rhaegar, he found him gazing back at her in a way so tender, so knowing, Robert felt his heart drop.

Ned tapped his wrist, pulling him out of his white-hot rage, and pointed to his hands. They were clenched in tight fists, knuckles white due to the strength of it. Robert hadn't even realized. When he opened his hands his palms had crescent-shaped imprints from his nails. Only now did he feel the sting of it.

When he looked back up at Lyanna, her eyes left the prince's, her attention returned to her brother. _It was nothing, just a coincidence,_ he told himself, yet the rest of the night his mind played back the memory of their gaze in an endless loop, and each time he saw red. When Brandon arrived at the table, Robert paid his japes no mind. When Jon came over to join them, Robert only managed a small hello. All he could think of was how Lyanna looked at the prince, and how she had never looked at him that way before.

He thought of going to her tent and speaking with her about it, but when the opportunity came, he let it pass.

In his bed that night, he told himself it was not her fault, that the prince had no right to look at her when she was promised to him. He forgot the looks people gave her from before, for none of them hurt him as the prince's did, and all because Lyanna looked back.

_Bastard,_ he called the prince, _A man without honor, a man unworthy of being called prince._ He lulled himself to sleep with curses, and when he woke Lyanna was perfect again, without fault.

As the new day dawned, so did the beginning of his hatred for Rhaegar Targaryen.


	11. Lyanna // Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna is enchanted by the prince, angry at Robert, and meets someone new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters only get longer from here on out. Comment and kudos!
> 
> Non-canon notes: Howland was attacked by the squires during the day and he supped with the Starks that night, when the feast marking the beginning of the tourney was held. I changed it a bit here.

It was a feeling she could barely describe.

When she had first laid eyes on the prince, it was out of wonder. She was awestruck by his presence, how everyone cheered his name, how breathtakingly handsome he was, how regal, how dignified. There was a sharpness to his look that siginified intelligence, yet a softness that seemed understanding. He was everything a prince should be, should look like.

It was when he met her admiring gaze that she felt as if her hear stopped beating altogether. The room seemed to fall near silent, the cheers and yells just a soft muffle in her ears. Time seemed to stand still. He looked at her as if he knew her well, with a gaze so gentle, so... so...

 _So loving._ She could not look away, but luckily, he did so first. When his eyes left her she found she could breathe again, and the noise became deafening once more, pounding in her ears. It was the strangest sensation she had ever experienced, to feel as if you could die looking into another person's eyes, yet being unable to look away...

It was her brother Benjen who pulled her out of her reverie with excited chatter.

"Did you see that, Lya?" He tugged on her sleeve then and for a second Lyanna looked at him as if he were a stranger. "That was everyone! Oh gods Lya, imagine, we used to dream of seeing these people and we saw them!" His mirthful laugh was what focused her attentions again, and she shook her head and smiled.

"Yes, Ben, that was all of them," She breathed, her voice sounding so far away. Benjen did not notice this in his excitement.

"Did you see Dawn?" He beamed, "Lya I swear, it shined even in its sheath, and it was so big, and he was so big," The grin suddenly left his face, "I want to be just like him." His tone was serious and solemn to where it grounded her. Benjen was not an intense person by any means; on the contrary, he was easygoing, jubilant, sweet, yet looking at her brother now she caught a glimpse of a hard man behind his eyes. She held his hands and squeezed them tight.

"Dearest Benjen, you will be like him and more," His cold expression dissolved into his familiar bright face, "You will be Benjen Stark, Sword of the Morning and Evening and everything in between. Women across the Seven Kingdoms will swoon at the mention of your name." He chuckled and shook his head.

"I don't know about that..."

The evening was cheerful, though Lyanna found herself the subject of many stares throughout the night, which she attempted to ignore. It wasn't until Brandon joined the table that she fell comfortable with the atmosphere, knowing very well that nothing could touch her as long as he was there. At various points throughout the night he'd make jokes at Robert's expense, but her betrothed did not seem to hear them.

Lord Arryn, who Ned referred to as just 'Jon', joined the table as well, and she recalled seeing his kindly face before. He asked her and her brothers many questions about themselves, and Lyanna realized that he had a way of making each of them feel important. After each response he would nod sagely and hesitate before asking another, as if seriously considering both the questions and the answers. Lyanna could see why Ned is so fond of him.

When the dining hall began to clear out, Lyanna and her brothers did so as well. Before she left she turned around one last time, catching a glimpse of Prince Rhaegar playing with the daughter in his lap. Lyanna felt as if she may swoon. 

When they reached the camp, Lyanna said good bye to Robert, who opened his mouth as if to speak before closing it, instead simply nodding his acknowledgement and walking off. It was notably strange of him to leave as wordlessly as he did, moreso that he didn't go in for a parting kiss. Lyanna decided she quite liked his kisses and was fairly disappointed at not getting one. They were always so passionate, yet tender, and Lyanna could not deny that she enjoyed his large hands on her body.

Shrugging his uncharacteristic behavior off, she retired to her tent where she slept fitfully, trying her best to shed the memory of the prince's haunting lilac eyes.

\---

For the next three days, every second of daylight was spent with Benjen. There were so many sights to see, from shows to contests, from impromptu skirmishes to planned acts of gallantry, the two of them were like children with too many playthings and too little time to play with them all. Lyanna had ribbed Benjen to join an archery contest, which he shied from, leaving her to glower at the contenders jealously. There was even a riding contest which she begged him to participate in, for her, but he refused before attempting to cheer her up by insisting she was better than all of them. If only she were a man, Lyanna swore she would be among the first to sign up. She found herself cursing her sex more than usual at Harrenhal, and the days leading up to it. Brandon had trained furiously in Winterfell with intentions of participating (and in his mind, winning) the joust. Lyanna could only watch him from the sides, muttering corrections to his riding and his posture, feeling as if the gods had played a cruel joke on her.

Lyanna and Benjen made a little contest of their own to see who would spot more knights than the other. Each knight was worth one point, a Kingsguard knight two, and a member of the royal family was three. If they spotted a person at the same time, they were awarded no points.

By the time night fell on the third day, and the bells were rung for supper, the contest had been called quits and Lyanna was three points behind Benjen. He had a sharp eye, her brother, and caught nearly every knight of the Kingsguard before prattling off a list of their accomplishments. It was a contest well won, and Lyanna could not even pretend to brood. They were the last to arrive at their table, with their brothers, Robert, Lord Arryn, and their friends already seated.

"And what were you two up to just now?" Ned asked with a disapproving frown, sounding very much like their lord father.

"Benjen and I were totaling the points of our contest." She replied, nudging Benjen in the ribs.

"And who won?" Brandon inquired, his interest piqued at the mention of a contest.

"Benjen did." Lyanna said, and imnediately her younger brother's broke out into a grin.

"Lyanna was close though," he conceded, ever the gentleman, "She was only a few points behind." Lyanna smiled then and kissed her sweet brother on the cheek. It was all very typical of him, that he would rather share a victory than keep it as his own. Brandon raised his glass of wine, and smiled down at his brother.

"To Benjen!" He exclaimed, shooting his little brother a wink. The others at the table did the same, raising their goblets and glasses to him.

"To Benjen!" They all cried, and Lyanna laughed as she saw his face turn red.

It was shortly after this celebration that the herald announced the kingsguard and the royal family, as he did every night, and the crowd cheered at the same volume as every other night. When the noise died down the band began to play, and many people rushed to the floor to dance.

In the midst of all this mirth, Lyanna suddenly felt very uneasy. She looked around and found eyes boring holes into her from every which way. This had happened the past two nights, where she would recieve uninvited stares that made her skin crawl. She looked to Brandon for support, but found him missing from his spot, instead dancing with a pretty maid on the floor. Without realizing it, her eyes had darted to the prince seated at his beautiful wife's side.

He scanned the scene in front of him with bright purple eyes, and Lyanna swore she could see his thoughts behind them, swirling and calculating. His fingers were on his lips, rubbing them slowly as he considered the scene before him. Lyanna's gaze went to his lips, hypnotized by them. _They must be so soft..._

She shook her head, berating herself for thinking such a thought. He was the married prince of Westeros, and she was the betrothed lady of Winterfell. He was good and faithful, and Lyanna... Lyanna had Robert. Her heart raced at the reminder, and the fears that had haunted her before came back to her. She suddenly remembered the advice Ned had uttered the night that she had learned of her betrothal. _Talk to him,_ He had said, _You will be married to him. Learn him. Talk to him._ Yes, she remembered that talk well. It started with a kiss and ended with an empty promise.

As if out of guilt, her eyes went to Robert, who was nursing a pint of beer in his hands. She hadn't done much talking with him since she came, throwing him only good morrows and evenings and kisses when he wanted one. Lowering her gaze, she got up from her seat and went to Robert's side of the table, standing behind him. She gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped at the unexpected touch. When he turned to see who it was, his frown turned into a loving smile.

"Lyanna," He breathed, looking up at her adoringly.

"Dance with me, Robert." It was not much of a request, but he seemed to derive great joy from it. He downed the last of his drink before setting it down and rising to his feet. Truly, he towered over her by nearly a foot, and he seemed much like a giant before her. He took a step back and bowed goofily, before holding out his arm for her to take. Lyanna could not help but smile as she obliged, and they stepped out into the mirthful crowd.

Robert was something of a clumsy dancer due to the liquor, but that did not bother Lyanna as she was not much better sober. He was careful not to step on her toes, however, and paid close mind to his hands, affirming that they were always on her. In the middle of a song, Lyanna leaned into him, smelling the bitter scent of beer on him, and as she looked up at him her chin nearly touched his chest.

"Take me to your tent, Robert," she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, "I need to talk to you." He blinked, surprised at the sudden request. Wordlessly, he took her by the hand and led her out of the hall. Once they were outside under the clear night sky the noise seemed to cease instantly, its presence only made known by the soft muffle behind them. He circled his arm around her waist then, and she initially bristled before relenting and leaning into him.

She dispelled any thoughts of the prince by focusing her thoughts on Robert's hand on her hip. It was warm through her silk dress. Warm and large and heavy, but it brought her a sense of security. Neither of them exchanged a word until they reached his tent on the north side of the castle, and then it was Lyanna who spoke first.

"Robert, I'm-" She was cut off by an eager kiss that tasted of beer. His hands glided down her waist and onto her hips, where they held firm, even after they broke away. Lyanna blinked, taken aback by his sudden passion, but did not comment. Attempting to continue, she stammered, "R-Robert, I... I'm afraid of... of..." she cursed herself for her stupidity, for letting herself get caught up in a kiss when there were fears that pressed upon her heart. As she paused, his lips grazed her temple, "I'm afraid..." His was at her cheek now, brushing over her jaw, her chin, before hovering a inch before her lips, "I'm... afraid..." she breathed, her voice hardly a whisper. Closing her eyes, she succumbed to the heat of his breath, and met his lips in a hard kiss. She had a hand on his cheek, rubbing the prickly stubble on his face, and another in his hair, her fingers wrapped up in his chestnut curls. In her passion, she had forgotten to curse her foolishness and lost the words she meant to say in his mouth.

Before Lyanna could even realize it, they were on his bed, with Robert leaning back on the headboard while Lyanna straddled his hips. His hands roamed over her body, grazing over her waist, hips, stomach, lingering on her rump and resting at her breasts. Little moans escaped her mouth that were muffled by his lips. He began to pull at the laces in the front of her dress, and instead of stopping him as she did last time, she helped him by tugging at the strings he left behind. When her breasts were bared, his lips left hers and traveled down her neck to the tops of her breasts kissing and sucking as he went. Both Lyanna's hands were in his hair by then, running through his curls while imtermittently tugging at them. His hands felt so good, his lips were so warm and inviting, and everything he did seemed to bring her immense pleasure. When she felt his breath hot on her hardened nipples, she gasped, burying her nose in his hair as her hands clenched handfuls of it.

He kissed them both so tenderly that Lyanna thought she may faint. One hand cupped a breast, rough on her soft skin while the other traveled up her leg, pushing her silks up as he went. He tilted his head up in her hands, and murmured, "I'm going to show you something." When he started to kiss her neck again, Lyanna furrowed her brows in confusion.

 _Wha-_ His hand was on the inside of her thigh now, and when his fingers brushed between her legs, she whispered, "Stop it," he either didn't hear or pretended not to as he did not retract his hand. His palm was flat against her now, and it sent a panic into her, "Stop it!" She screamed, using all her strength to shove herself away from him. Getting to her feet, Lyanna found herself panting and clutching at her chest. "Gods, Robert!" She yelled viciously.

Robert looked quite befuddled, his arms limp at his sides and his eyes questioning. "What did I do?" He asked innocently.

"I told you to _stop_ -"

"I didn't hear you!" He retorted angrily, getting to his feet. But Lyanna did not stop her accusations.

"I came here to talk to you, and instead you put your hands all over me-"

"You didn't seem to mind," He snapped back. Slighted, Lyanna turned and laced up her bodice with clumsy hands while she slipped into her shoes. "No, Lya, don't go," he pleaded, the fury gone from his voice now.

She knew it was not all his fault. He had given into his passion and she into hers, but Lyanna was deaf to reason. What had begun as a vulnerable confession ended in rage. "I wanted to talk to you, to tell you things, to... to..." Unbidden tears sprung into her eyes again, and she suddenly felt very alone, "It was stupid of me to think you'd listen." Without looking back, Lyanna turned on her heel and left his tent, ignoring his calls begging her to come back.

On her walk to her tent, she cursed herself for thinking that their encounter would have gone any other way. Robert was lustful, impulsive, pleasure-seeking and Lyanna...

 _I am too._ She recalled the feeling of his hot breath on her bare skin and she shivered. _But he should have listened. When I said I wanted to talk, he should have listened._ Yes, she decided it was his fault. She was incapable of talking to him, and he was incapable of listening.

As she walked alongside the northern wall of the jousting stadium, Lyanna began to hear sounds of laughter paired with moans of pain. Curious, she cautiously walked forward, and the sounds became louder, clearer. Poking her head around the corner, she found the silhouetted forms of three boys towering over a smaller form on the ground. They delivered vicious kicks to the boy on the ground, and laughed cruelly when he asked them to stop.

"What's that, frogeater?" One of them jibed, "You want us to what?" He threw his leg back before sharply plunging the toe of his shoe into the smaller boy's stomach. The poor thing moaned pitifully, and asked them again to stop.

"I think the frogeater wants us to stop," said another, his voice thin and menacing, "I believe we're keeping him late for supper. Frogs are harder to catch at night, you know." The boys guffawed before sending another round of blows on the boy.

Lyanna had forgotten her anger at Robert and instead became duly infuriated at the boys before her. Without thinking twice, she stormed over to the circle with clenched fists and a set jaw. "That's my father's man you're kicking!" She thundered, making up an excuse on the spot. He might have been, he might not, but it mattered naught now.

The three boys turned to look at her. They were all close in age to her, perhaps a bit older, and slightly taller. In the dark Lyanna could see them wearing squires clothing, though she did not let her eyes linger long enough to see what sigils adorned them. She met their hard gazes with one that would melt the skin off of bones. After looking her over, the three of them doubled over in laughter, clutching their stomachs. This only added to her already mighty fury. 

"And who's your father, girl? King of the Frogeaters?" The one with the shrill voice snickered, sending his mates into another round of raucous laughter. Her eyes went to the hip of the one closest to her, and she spotted a sword. As quick as whip, she unsheathed the sword from its scabbard and discovered its edges were blunted. A tourney sword, but it would do.

As soon he realized his sword was gone, Lyanna swung, hitting him hard in the chest and knocking him to his back. She heard two more swords being unsheathed beside her, and she turned on her heel, whapping one on the wrist. He cried out and dropped his sword, screaming curses at her. As he fell to his knees to scramble for his weapon in the dark, Lyanna caught it by the hilt with her foot and sent it spinning far behind her. She sent the sword down on his shoulder and he cursed loudly before holding his shoulder and crawling clumsily away from her. The one whose sword she had was on his feet again, gasping for air. He took one look at his mate writhing on the ground and bolted. _Coward_ she seethed, unimpressed. The last one, the only one left with a sword, attempted to save face by swinging his sword at her neck. She ducked away swiftly and, with the flat of her sword, delivered a punishing blow to his groin.

"Fuck!" He bellowed, his voice cracking. His weapon hit the ground and he keeled over, holding his bruised balls. The one that had been crawling finally made it to his feet and and ran from her. Seeing his friend gone, the last one bolted too, still cupping his crotch. He slipped and nearly fell during his flight, and Lyanna had a queer urge to laugh, but then she would be no better than them. Throwing her sword to the ground among the others, Lyanna finally looked down at the victim. He was a small man, likely five feet and five inches like herself. His face was bruised and bloodied, with a swollen black eye and cuts on his lips and face. His dark scraggly hair was matted to his ruddy face, and he was clad in a cloak of brown scales. His clothes were variegated shades of green, tattered and dirty, and he smelled muggy, like the godswood after a hard rain.

"You poor boy." she murmured, examining the damages. In a bold gesture, she lifted his shirt and found ugly bruises on his stomach. She tutted and shook her head.

"Thank you." He whispered through swollen lips. Smiling down at him, she got to her feet and extended a hand.

"Come with me. I'll treat your injuries." He took her hand and she helped raise him onto his feet. Wordlessly, he motioned to a spear on the ground, and she picked it up. He took it before clutching his side, letting out a soft groan, and Lyanna put her arm around him.

 _If he had a spear, why didn't he...?_ Lyanna waved away the thought.

With his remaining strength he walked with her to her tent, where Lyanna sat him down on her bed. In the light of the lanterns, she saw his face better, and noticed he was not the boy she thought he was. He was likely of an age with her, perhaps a bit older, but younger than Ned. His eyes were a dark green, with a spark of wisdom that made him seem older than he actually was.

Lyanna rummaged around in her chest of clothes to find something to make bandages out of. She came upon a cream colored nightgown, and decided it would do. Along with that, she took a small basin of water off her vanity and went over to the bed, sitting on her legs beside him. She ripped off a piece of the gown and dipped it in the water, before patting his face with it to remove the blood and dirt.

"My lady, you do not have to do that," he protested weakly, cringing when the cloth touched an open cut.

"Of course I have to," she insisted, "I just told them you were my father's man," he did not reply to that, and wordlessly let her continue. "I'm Lyanna Stark," she said, "You may call me Lyanna."

He turned to look her, and she grabbed his face gingerly, turning it forward again and steadying it. "I cannot let you do this, my lady, you are Lord Stark's daughter," he was very polite, she noted, "We are sworn to your house." Lyanna raised a brow, curious.

"Who are you?" She asked.

"Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, my lady." 

Lyanna gasped and paused her cleaning. She knew the name Reed, that they were the lords of the crannogmen of the Neck. _So he is one of my father's men._ It made sense now, his small size and his muddy clothing. " _Lord_ Howland Reed you mean," she corrected, "Those boys don't know what they did. I suppose we'll have to teach them," she added curtly, shaking her head at gall of those idiots.

"I think they know what they did," he replied solemnly, and Lyanna recalled the nickname they gave him. Frogeater, it was, a cruel name given to the crannogmen. "And I believe you've shown them the error of their ways."

"Hardly," Lyanna scoffed, "What I gave them was a mercy. They deserve more."

Just then, Benjen enetered the tent, pausing in his steps to blink at the unknown man before him. "Lya, who...?" He began cautiously.

"Benjen where are your manners?" Lyanna frowned, "Old Nan would simply faint if she saw how you failed to introduce yourself to the Lord of Greywater Watch." Her brothers eyes widened and he cleared his throat nervously.

"Oh, my apologies, Lord...?"

"Howland Reed, my lord. Please, I am only Howland," The crannogman piped up, bowing his head.

"Howland. I'm Benjen Stark," He gave Lord Reed a warm smile, "What brings you south? Are you here for the tourney as well?"

Howland nodded. "Aye, that and I've longed for adventure and have traveled far to find it." Lyanna decided she liked him.

"Well it seems you've found something," Benjen smiled, indicating his wounds. "What happened?"

"I was walking around the stadium and these three squires decided that they did not like crannogmen," He answered in a sad voice, "It was Lady Lyanna who staved them off."

"It was hardly a fight," Lyanna huffed, "They were untrained cowards who were quick to run after a few blows." Benjen chuckled at his sister.

"I'm in your debt, my lady-" Howland began. She cut him off with a sharp look and sharper words,

" _Lyanna_ ," She corrected. She then dropped the bloody cloth into the basin and examined his face, "You are mostly cleaned up. We'll find you a salve to coat those cuts tomorrow. Shall we walk you to your tent?" He shook his head.

"No tent, my... Lyanna," he said, catching himself, "I've been sleeping out in the open since I came." Lyanna furrowed her brows in worry.

"Have you supped?" Benjen asked, a worried look of his own on his face.

"Aye, I hunted earlier in the day." He nodded toward his spear on the floor.

"Hunted? Why didn't you sup in the hall?" Lyanna inquired, her interest piqued.

"They wouldn't believe that I was a lord. Said my clothes were too dirty." Although he did not seem disturbed by this, Lyanna was. She exchanged troubled looks with her brother.

"It appears everyone here has forgotten their manners," Lyanna remarked, frustrated. "Howland, you will sleep in Benjen's tent tonight," her brother nodded his agreement, "And tomorrow you'll meet my older brothers. We will find you clothes that those rats deem acceptable and you will sup at our table," Her tone was so commanding and unshakable, that Howland did not protest. He had begun to sing her praisies, insisting she was too kind, but she cut him off, "You are a lord and deserve as much. Then," she smiled playfully, "We will find a way to teach those squires some respect." Ideas had already begun to swim in her head, from the kind to the cruel. They would pay- she would be sure of it.

Howland thanked the two of them profusely before Benjen walked him out to his neighboring tent, leaving Lyanna alone in hers. She pulled her knees up and rested her chin on them. Her mind was swimming with thoughts that pained her, that raised questions she couldn't answer. She closed her eyes and thought of Robert, his hand touching the place between her legs, and the unwarranted panic it set upon her. _I do not know what a woman knows,_ her words echoed in her head. But all he knew was lust, and she was still learning it.

She laid her weary head on her pillow and thought of Prince Rhaegar's lips, his knowing look, his purple eyes and silver hair. As hard as she tried, she could not get him out of her head. Since she arrived she often heard people, smallfolk and highborn alike, sing his praises. Gentle, kind Rhaegar who cared for his smallfolk and was good to his wife and children. Strong Rhaegar, who unhorsed even Ser Arthur Dayne in tourney. Faithful Rhaegar, who never strayed from his fragile wife's bed. A true prince, meant to be king. "Insipid girl," she muttered to herself, "Since when did you believe in fairytales?" Never.

Unexpected tears began to wet her pillow. _I don't want Robert,_ she cried in her head, _I do not want Storm's End, nor his sons or his daughters,_ She saw her life with him in all clarity, and it broke her heart. No adventure, no fun, no surprises. Just a smaller cage where instead she wouldn't be able to turn. Every day she spent at Storm's End, every swollen stomach, every ounce of pain would be in her family's name. It is for her father and brothers, for alliances, for duty and honor.

Yet it was a direwolf that graced the sigil of her house, wild and bound by nothing but the earth below and sky above- not by honor and goodness. That was what she wanted. To love and live and die by her own accord, not by any others.

It's the wolf-blood in her, and every drop of it cried out when she thought of marriage to Robert. The she-wolf would not bend for a mere stag, yet the world around her insisted she did.

Still, it wasn't enough to break her will.


	12. Ned & Brandon // Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned attempts to patch things up between Lyanna and Robert. Brandon and Ned are captivated by the same woman, but she is only captivated by one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this maybe 10 times. It's a double dose of the Stark brothers. Comment and kudos!

**Ned**

It had been very late when Robert came storming into his tent, red-eyed and with a tongue that was heavy with drink.

He roused him awake, shaking his body and repeating his name, Ned, Ned, Ned, Ned... The long-suffering friend that he was, Ned woke with only a grumble before sitting up and glowering at Robert through heavy-lidded eyes. As soon as he saw he was paying some sort of attention, a flurry of words left his lips.

He blubbered about Lyanna and some sort of falling out, how she kissed him and became angry- in his disorientation, Ned didn't catch the more passionate details. Even wide awake he likely wouldn't have, seeing how Robert slurred, and often. Ned nodded, feigning interest, until Robert blurted out a question,

"Will you talk to her for me?" He asked, hands clasped in a begging fashion, "Talk to her, tell her 'm sorry, that I'll listen, please, Ned, she's angry." Ned frowned. Since their betrothal, Ned provided much advice and little else to Lyanna and Robert. His sister was inexperienced with relationships with men who were not her brothers, and Robert was too experienced with women, but only in the ones that were paid to please him. He told both sides to attempt conversation, to learn each other, but so far it seemed futile. Ned took notice of their kisses, but found that they contacted each other very little otherwise.

"Robert, she is to be your wife," Ned mumbled groggily, "You speak with her." 

"I know she won't want to hear it from me," Robert insisted, desperate, "Please Ned, as m'friend, my brother." Ned thought he might groan aloud. The brave, mighty Robert was a man too afraid to speak to the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. He could see their future now: With every falling out, Robert would send him letters begging him to speak with her, and Lyanna would be stubborn and cold until Robert apologized. Knowing how pugnacious the two could become, this would happen often. Ned would be making trips to Storm's End near every week once those two were forced to spend every day together.

"No," Ned asserted, "You will tell her youself." It was to be a lesson to him, and Ned knew how Lyanna would appreciate Robert tucking away his pride and asking for her forgiveness. It could be the push she needed to open her heart to him.

"Ned, please, just this time," Robert begged again, immovable, "When we're married it'll be different, but I know she'll be less angry if you spoke to her."

"No," he grunted again.

"Please!" He was unshakable.

"Alright," Ned groaned, flopping back down onto his bed. He'd regret it later, but he wanted his sleep now. "Just go away, Robert. Gods be good, just let me sleep."

Robert thanked him a million times over until Ned thought his head may burst. When he finally left, Ned was quick to fall back asleep before his mind had a chance to consider the consequences.

 

It was Benjen who woke him the next morning, insisting that there was someone he must meet. Ned opened his eyes to find sunlight pouring into the tent and he squinted. Though he was not fully rested, it was a relief to see that it was morn when he was stirred from sleep. Benjen waited patiently as he got up to wash his face and put on some clothes. When he led him outside, he found Lyanna at a small man's side, and Brandon too. All heads turned to Ned when he joined them, and Lyanna was the first to speak,

"Ned, this is Lord Howland Reed," she said, motioning to the man beside her. He was of an age with Lyanna, perhaps older, but was about as tall as her. The name was a familiar one as well; the Reeds were a house of crannogmen sworn to House Stark, and have been for many ages. They were good allies to have, as they guarded their part of the Neck well, and the Neck was the key to the north. Ned mustered a smile for the boy.

"Eddard Stark," he said, introducing himself. Howland bowed his head respectfully, and as he did, Ned took note of his bruises and cuts, "What happened to you?" He asked, worried.

"Squires," he answered with a shrug, "T'was the la- erm, Lyanna who chased them off." His sister beside him smiled, proud of herself. Brandon was another story; he guffawed loudly, throwing his head back. Ned shot him a disapproving look.

"Lya did?" He asked incredulously, "They must not have been very good if you needed protecting from a woman, lad." He was being rude, as he so often was.

"Forgive me, my lord, but I do not believe a protector's worth is based on sex," he replied, his tone even and respectful, "And I must say, my protector was quite good." Lyanna beamed beside him; Ned could tell she has taken a liking to the boy, and Ned could see why. He smiled at his boldness, liking him too.

Brandon's face fell and he began to grumble something about not having time for children before walking off to find a crowd that will adore him. Ned chuckled at his foolish older brother before turning back to Howland.

"You are a welcome guest at our table, Lord Reed," Ned announced, "I am curious as to why you haven't supped with us before." Though the question was to Howland, it was Lyanna who answered and with much heat,

"The guards wouldn't let him in on account of his clothes," Lyanna hissed, "They wouldn't believe he's highborn. What gall!" Ned almost smiled at her passion, but he held it back, knowing that she would not like him to.

"And then those squires attacked him for being a crannogman!" Benjen chimed in, upset on his new friend's behalf. Ned saw how Howland Reed's face flushed red at their fervent defenses, and it brought a smile to his lips.

"It appears you'll have to show those guards the error of their ways by supping with us," Ned said to him, "By the looks of it, you don't have a choice." Ned chuckled, looking pointedly at Lyanna and Benjen. The little man nodded before uttering a bashful thank you.

"We ought to get on our way," Lyanna stated, looping her arm in Howland's, "We've got some planning to do." She exchanged a secretive look with Benjen, who nodded in agreement. As they turned to leave, Ned suddenly remembered what he told Robert he would do. Sighing inwardly, he called for Lyanna, who stopped and turned around.

"What is it?" She asked, her voice holding an edge of impatience.

"Come here," Ned replied, motioning for her to come closer. She did so, but not without an exasperated huff. She stood before him with a hand on her hip and a raised brow. Ned almost laughed at her spirit, but what he was entrusted to do next dampened his mood. "Lya," he began softly, lowering his voice to a soothing murmur, "Robert told me about your falling out-"

"What did he tell you?" She asked sharply. Her face blanched at his words and Ned furrowed his brows. Had Robert left something out, or had he not paid attention?

"He said you were angry at him is all," Ned replied warily. "Is there anything else I should know?" She lowered her gaze nervously; Ned tilted her chin up to force her eyes back on his own. He was very good at reading his sister, and her eyes gave much away. She was fearful, and perhaps a bit embarrassed too. "Lyanna," he uttered her name as a warning. Ned was not a violent man, nor a passionate one, but if Robert had done anything to hurt his dear sister, he could easily become one. No matter how much love he bore Robert, it paled in comparison to the love he bore his sister.

"No, that is all," Lyanna insisted, "He spoke true. I am angry at him." Though Ned was not convinced, he let it go.

"Robert says he's sorry," Ned began, the words nearly making his cringe, "He's very sorry, and begs your forgiveness." As soon as the words left his mouth, all of Lyanna's features contorted into that of potent fury. Her brows furrowed, her lips curved down in a hateful frown, and her eyes turned cold. It was exactly as he expected her to react, exactly what he had warned Robert would happen.

"And why couldn't he tell me that himself?" She snapped, her voice rising in volume, "Is the fearsome Robert Baratheon so small a man that he can't face his betrothed and apologize himself?" Ned knew that she was too far gone in her spite to try and convince her otherwise, but he did so anyways for his friend's sake.

"Lyanna, he is a good man, he does not mean to slight you-"

" _Slight_ me!?" She roared, clenching her hands into small fists, "He's done more than slight me, he's... he's..." She wiped at her eyes with white knuckles, and bit her quivering lip still. Ned put a hand on her shoulder that she quickly shrugged off, "If he wants my forgiveness, he can learn to ask for it himself. It wouldn't hurt him to talk to me every once in a while," she sputtered, her voice quiet now. When Ned reached out to touch her again, she pushed his hand away and gave him one final look of betrayal that near broke his heart. She turned and walked back to Benjen and Howland, who greeted her with worried looks.

Ned's sorrow quickly shifted into rage at his best friend. It was Robert, not him that should have came to her himself and asked, begged, pleaded for her forgiveness. The image of Ned riding to Storm's End to patch up their troubles was spirited away from his mind. It was clear that Robert was too accustomed to ignoring responsibility: he acknowledged none of his bastards, paid their mothers no coin to feed and clothe them, and allowed his steward to run his own holdings. Ned knew this fault of his all too well from growing up with him at the Vale, and he would be damned if he let him marry his sister with that fault still intact.

He began his search for Robert at his tent, which he found empty. He then walked all around Harrenhal asking people passing by, smallfolk and highborn alike, if they'd seen him. It was a group of giggling girls that divulged the information, and he thanked them for it. Robert was at the grand stadium competing in a seven-sided melee, and Ned watched him patiently from the sides until he finally fell from the ranks. He did not win, but he had done remarkably well- not that Ned would tell him that.

He found Robert stripping off his armor with the help of a scrawny servant boy who flitted around him like a fly, removing various plates of steel as he went. When Robert caught sight of him, he grinned widely. "Did you see me, Ned?" He asked excitedly, "I had entered at the last second, some boys said I ought to join, you know how it is-"

"I spoke to her," Ned remarked bluntly. Immediately, the smile was wiped off Robert's face. "She is even more unhappy than before." The boy had finally taken off all the armor but did not leave, and instead stood there with an open palm. Ned looked pointedly at him, but Robert made no move to acknowledge him. Ned sighed and pulled a copper out of his pocket and tossed it to the boy, who accepted it with a curt thank you before finding some other lord to assist.

"You told her I was sorry?" Robert asked meekly. Lyanna would laugh to see him so feeble, but Ned merely frowned.

"Aye, I did, and she said what I told you." Ned did not know if Robert had paid any attention to him last night, but his blank stare gave him away. "She would rather you speak to her yourself."

Robert lowered his head and kicked some dirt at his feet like a child being scolded for misbehaving. "I suppose I should..." he mumbled, still hesitant.

"Robert, you cannot fear her so," Ned sighed, uncrossing his arms. He hated to see his friend so dejected, but it was a lesson he had to learn, "You've fallen in love with her beauty, but when that fades, all she will have are her words. You must learn to love those too." He sounded like his lord father, wise and weathered by the years. Ned had never been in love, but he always held a good idea of how he would go about loving a woman. He learned it from his old father.

Robert nodded weakly, his gaze still focused on the ground. Cursing his impotent will, Ned offered to buy him something cold to beat off his sweat. His friend had smiled then, that familiar easy smile of his that sent a maiden's heart a-flutter and lowered a man's guard.

 _He means well,_ Ned reassured himself, _He loves Lyanna, and he's a good man for her._ He had to believe that of Robert. After all, the man was going to whisk his sister a thousand miles south from home. A thousand miles from him.

 

\---

**Brandon**

Brandon didn't care much for the crannogman that was sitting at their table tonight. He saw how Lyanna and Benjen took a liking to him, what with letting him sleep in Benjen's tent and borrowing his clothes; even now it was obvious as he sat beside his siblings, the three of them leaning into each other till their heads nearly knocked. They had even been late in joining their table. Seeing as how they were whispering and pointing now, they appeared to be as thick as thieves, plotting something, only the three of them.

Brandon shrugged off the thought. There were greater events at hand: Tonight was the feast that would mark the beginning of the jousting tournament, one that Brandon was eager to join. The music seemed to play louder, the dancers moved with more vigor, the laughs sounded more raucous. Off to the end of the table, the distasteful Robert Baratheon was having a noisy drinking contest with some other lord, and Brandon had no doubt in his mind that he was winning. A queer part of him wished that he would choke on his wine and drop dead, dying the way he lived: drunk.

Ned was sitting beside him, solemn and serious as he so often was, talking to Jon Arryn across from him. Brandon was sure it must be _riveting_ conversation, a talk between an old man and his sullen brother, so he decided to stay out of it.

His attentions, instead, were focused on a pretty dark-haired maid dancing. She jumped from partner to partner and smiled and laughed for all of them, no matter how old or revolting they were. She had danced with Brandon last night; she looked up at him with her big violet eyes and a playful tilt to her lips, and Brandon had been thinking about that mouth ever since she moved out of his arms and into another's.

Brandon knew he was playing with fire by ogling her; or rather, he was playing with his life. She was Ashara Dayne, sister to Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. If Brandon had been a man who feared death, he would have forgotten her the second she stopped dancing with him, but Brandon was no such man. The risk only added to her appeal.

While he was observing her, the dining hall fell to a sudden silence. Ashara stopped to turn around, and Brandon followed her gaze up to the front of the hall, where Prince Rhaegar was seating himself in a plain wooden chair with a dazzling silver harp in front of him. His cool lilac eyes scanned over the room before he began to pluck at the sparkling strings, emitting beautiful music. Brandon raised a brow, surprised that the prince had pulled himself out of his melancholy long enough to play a song. He had heard that Rhaegar could play the harp and sing quite well, but he never could quite imagine it. Even now it seemed bit incredulous, and Brandon couldn't find it in him to be impressed. It was another ploy to get the people to love him even more, of that Brandon had no doubt. Every girl in the hall was likely fanning herself to keep from fainting and every man envied that ability to do so.

The silver prince began to sing of a maiden fair, trapped in a dream and surrounded by snow. A winter maiden, he called her, and he sang of her beauty, her grace, and her sad smile. Brandon noticed the prince's eyes had become fixated at something before him. Following his stare, he found it was some _one_ : Lyanna. Her wide eyes were filled with tears, one of which clung to an eyelash before dropping down onto her cheek. As Brandon stared at her in disbelief, the song ended, and Lyanna began to sniffle. Benjen poked her in the ribs and said something that provoked her to spill her cup of wine over his head.

"Lyanna!" Ned gasped beside him, witnessing the same scene. The girl turned to look at him with hard waterlogged eyes and pouted.

"He deserved it!" She shouted back, indignant. She then picked up the cloth napkin on the table before her and pressed her face into it, wiping away any trace of tears, and turned to Benjen to help clean him up. Brandon laughed loudly, and Ned shot him a wary look.

"Lighten up, brother," he said clapping him on the back, "They're old enough to figure things out." Ned sighed and nodded. His brother worried too much, and over the course of the trip he'd been acting very much like his lord father.

As Ned looked out before him, Brandon saw something catch his eye and mesmerize him. He stared with eyes wide open, following every movement of the figure. He had never seen his brother so enraptured by anything to this degree. Brandon followed his gaze and found his awe had good cause: It was Ashara Dayne again, dazzling as she twirled from one man to another. Brandon smiled slyly and leaned over to Ned.

"You see her?" Brandon whispered to him. Still, Ned did not stir and his eyes remained focused, "Ashara Dayne. Can you guess whose sister she is?" It was a jape, but Ned nodded anyways. 

_Can it be?_ Brandon asked himself, _Ned Stark, fancying a girl?_ It was both amusing and a relief.

"She's beautiful," Ned murmured, still dumbstruck.

"Why don't you ask her to dance?" Brandon asked, nudging him in the side. His brother broke his gaze and turned to look at him, incredulous.

"Me?" Ned sputtered, "I-I... I can't." It was a measly excuse, and Brandon didn't plan on letting him off so easy.

"Then I'll ask her for you," Brandon quipped. Before Ned had a chance to protest, Brandon was on his feet making his way over to the fair maid. He whirled Ashara out of another man's arms and into his. He grinned devilishly down at her, and she smiled back, that playful tilt to her lips returning.

"Lady Ashara," he crooned, keeping in step with her, "It appears you've rendered my brother speechless and shy, but he'd very much like to dance with you." She giggled sweetly and looked past his shoulder.

"Which one is your brother?" She asked, scanning the tables behind him.

"The dark one who's looking at you as if you were Shiera Seastar herself," he replied. She smiled sweetly and nodded.

"He surely looks like your brother," she said, looking up at him, "But I daresay, you are much more handsome. I'd rather dance with you." The comment surprised Brandon, and his cool smile nearly slipped. Clearing his throat, he vouched for his brother again,

"Ned is a much better man than I am. He deserves a dance with the loveliest girl in the room." There was truth to that statement. Ned was the better man by far, and she was the loveliest creature in the room.

"I will dance with him, then," she agreed, "For a price." Her eyes sparkled rougely, and Brandon felt himself inexplicably pulled in.

"Name it." Anything for Ned.

She put a hand on the back of his neck and stood on her toes so that her lips were by his ear. "There is an empty stable a little ways left from the stadium," she whispered, her breath tickling his ear, "Meet me there." Without another word, she pulled away and walked over to Ned, who she pulled to his feet. Brandon watched her go and could not look away, even as she began to dance with his brother.

Brandon was no stranger to a woman's ways. He knew what she wanted, and to tell the truth, he wanted it too. But this was different; usually it was Brandon who wooed and whispered, who sent women's hearts a-flutter, but this time it was the woman who had him at her mercy. The feeling near drove him mad with desire.

When supper was over, Brandon had to restrain himself from bolting out the doors and to the designated spot. Instead, he walked his siblings out and told them he'd go to bed later before searching for the stable.

He found it, and with her inside. She was stunning, her violet eyes gleaming as the moonlight danced on her bronzed skin and in her dark hair. Her blue silk dress hugged her shapely cueves, accentuating the parts that Brandon loved best. He wanted her. The feeling came so suddenly and fervently upon him that Brandon pulled her to him and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her form. She was as eager as he was, perhaps more, as she kissed him back, her hands deftly unlacing his leather jerkin and throwing it to the floor. Brandon pulled at the laces on the back of her dress, and she shrugged out of the sleeves, the blue silks falling in a pool around her feet. Her bare skin was pressed against him and felt soft and cool underneath his touch. Gently, she took his hand and guided it to between her legs, where worked at making her wet.

She pulled at his hair, whining and moaning into his mouth with every rub, every graze of his fingertips on her body. Brandon was going near mad with her noises filling his mouth and eased her onto the hay below. There he threw off his shirt, and Ashara began to pull at the laces of his breeches, swift and sure. She held him in her gentle hands, already hard and aching, and began to stroke him slowly, deliberately. Something of a growl left his mouth as he pulled her arms up above her head and entered her. She let out an elated gasp before wriggling her hands out of his grasp and grazing her fingertips across his back, teasing him with her soft carresses. His lips were at her throat, the tops of her breast, then her lips again, as he thrust in and out of her. She tasted of wine and the sun, sweet and hot. Whenever she was especially pleased, she would drag her nails across his back, tug at his hair or tighten the hold of her legs around his hips, and all of those responses sent him reeling. His hands roamed over her breasts, tweaking and squeezing as he did so. Brandon felt her lips at his ear, and the sensation of her hot breath on his skin drove him to move faster.

"My turn," she whispered huskily, and in one swift movement, she caught his hip with her leg and turned him on his back. Brandon didn't have time to be taken aback as she began to rock her hips, erratically at first before she found rhythm that suited them both. Brandon was not accustomed to being underneath a woman, as he was usually the one that was in total control. Yet the move seemed so bold, so commanding, like he was a horse being ridden by his owner, and he found that he enjoyed it. The way she held his gaze, how her weight pressed upon him, it was all gratifying in a brand new way. His hands were on her hips, and he pressed his fingers into the supple skin with each grunt of pleasure she drew out of him.

She peaked before him, her body wracked with unbridled pleasure. She moaned loudly, throwing her head back, the eroticism accentuated as some strands of her dark hair stuck to her face and lips. After she finished her shaking, she rode him with a new determination, increasing the speed and strength of her movements until he climaxed as well and he raised his hips to meet hers, his seed spilling inside her with one final groan.

She lifted herself off him and laid beside him, curling into his side. Brandon put an arm about her shoulders; as he did so, she shifted so that she may lay her head on his chest. She drew circles on the muscles of his stomach with her finger, which he was intensely aware of. "The Starks," she breathed, breaking the silence, "So good and dutiful and honorable." She giggled, tilting her head up to look at him. Brandon could only laugh at the irony. Right now his house didn't matter. The only thing that meant anything to him was the feeling of her body pressed to his, her skin warm and soft as the arm he draped across across her back rose and fell with each breath she took. Even her scent, which was a musty mixture of sex and hay, culminated in a moment of bliss, unperturbed by nothing.

Another hush followed before Ashara spoke again. "Brandon?" She asked sweetly, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Yes?"

"I think I love you," she confessed.

Brandon blanched. He did not expect her to say such a thing, particularly when he did not feel the same- Or rather, he _shouldn't_ feel the same.

"You love me too, don't you?" She prodded, sounding almost like a child, "That is why you came here. You love me too." Brandon didn't know what to say. He did not know if what she said was true either, for he did not know why he came. He just knew he wanted her is all. "You are not like other men," she continued, "You do not go to bed with a woman you do not hold affection for."

"How would you know that?" Brandon finally managed to utter. Looking into her haunting eyes he felt totally vulnerable. When he looked at her, he could think of no other, not his father, his brothers, his sister, nor his betrothed. It was Ashara and only Ashara.

"I know," she answered, "I know men." Brandon was troubled. It was as if those doe eyes of hers saw right into his soul, and it frightened him that they could. Brandon, the wild wolf, the one with the commanding presence was shrunk down to a pup with its tail between its legs. And she saw that too. "Kiss me, Brandon," she murmured, placing a hand on his cheek, "Do not think on it. Kiss me and forget your troubles."

He did.


	13. Rhaegar // Fated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar tells Elia the truth. His father sends him after the mystery knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited Rhaegar chapter has arrived. :)

He knew her when he saw her, his winter maiden. There was no mistaking it; on that night she had sat before him, all dark curls, pale skin, and red lips, and it was felt as if the gods themselves placed her on earth for him. Even her name seemed familiar to him: Lyanna. When he learned it, he sat in his chambers and whispered it, and it rolled off his tongue effortlessly. It was a sweet name to have on his lips, as long as he ignored her second name, the name that signified her house.

She was a Stark. She was the only daughter, the only woman. She was of importance. What was worse, she was promised. Robert Baratheon had been betrothed to her for over three moons, and it was whispered that he was heads over heels for his lady. It almost seemed a cruel joke; instead of a common woman who would bear his child without too many whispers, the gods made the carrier of his prophecy a highborn lady whose hands would soon be bound to a highborn lord.

That night he sang the song he wrote for her and watched her cry. A strange feeling washed over him then, the urge to walk to her and kiss her tears away, as he had kissed her so many times before in his dreams. As he plucked at the silver strings of his beloved harp, the words in his mouth tasted as sweet as her lips did.

When he arrived at his chambers in Harrenhal's castle, he found Elia waiting up for him, a wisp in her cream silk nightgown, sitting up in bed. As he began to change into his small clothes, she asked him a question, "Who was the song about?"

Rhaegar opened his mouth as if to speak before closing it. He should have seen it coming- after all, he was singing about a woman. He could lie, say it was about her, or just something he thought of, but Rhaegar instead made up his mind to tell her the truth. "It was about a woman from my dreams," he replied, looking at her. She blinked, confused. He had been hiding much from his dear wife as of late, and wrongfully so. Elia was kind, gentle, devoted, and she had never wronged him. His secrets were her secrets, and it felt strange to keep them from her. "Elia, I must tell you something." He pulled up a chair beside the bed and lowered himself into it, leaning towards her.

She inched closer to him and turned her body so that her legs hung off the bed and their knees touched. He took her hands in his and looked her in those splendid green eyes as he began, "I've dreamed of her nearly every night since Aegon had left your womb. Some nights she laughs and runs while the winds and snows of winter chase her; other nights she is full with a child- my child," he paused then, recalling her words, "My prince, she calls him. The woman is not you, that much I am sure of. Many times I told myself that she was no one, just a creature my mind had invented- but I saw her here at Harrenhal, and I know now that she is real, that she is meant for something..." He trailed off, averting his gaze as visions of Lyanna filled his head. His winter maiden, the mother of a prophecy, of a man of promised greatness.

"Who is she?" Elia's voice interrupted, pulling his attention back to her. His eyes focused on her again, and he saw just the slightest trace of hurt in the lines of her face.

"Lyanna Stark," Rhaegar murmured, allowing himself the pleasure of her name on his tongue, "Elia, Aegon is not the prince who was promised. There must be three heads of the dragon," his eyes wandered down to her stomach, "And you cannot give me a third." He did not say it to wound her, but she trembled regardless. She pulled her hands from his grasp and buried her face in them, hiding the pain in her eyes. Rhaegar felt his heart plummet. 

"It is my fault," she cried softly, "It is my fault that you cannot be happy." Rhaegar gently peeled away her hands and held her face. Her green eyes were red with tears, and sorrow wrinkled her brow. He kissed her fretting forehead before leaning into her, their noses touching.

"Elia, you have made me unspeakably happy," he assured her, "You have given me two children whom I love with all my soul. But this prince will have the power to rally the people from all four corners of the world. He will bring light to our dark ages, be strong in spirit and in body." Rhaegar felt the hairs on his arms stand on end as he said this. So many times he read the books, examined the prophecy, sent letters to all who held even the faintest knowledge on the matter. So many times he prayed, wished, dreamed. It felt so close now. "I do not want the prince for my own happiness, Elia, for you have given me that and more. The world needs him. If I must pass before I see him come to greatness, so be it. At least then I can rest knowing that I have done my part."

Her eyes were softer now, and her lip was no longer quivering. Gone were the tears from her eyes, and in its place was a gentle understanding that only a wife could manage. "What will you do, then?" She asked, her voice fainter than a summer breeze.

"I am still unsure," he responded, abashed.

"She is a highborn woman, the only daughter of the North," Elia stated facts he already knew, "It is difficult."

Rhaegar nodded. "Do not worry about how I will do it," he leaned back and held her hands again, "I only ask for your permission, your understanding. I will not torment you with the details."

To his surprise, she shook her head vigorously, "You are my husband," she asserted, squeezing his hands, "You have more than my understanding, you must know that by now," Rhaegar couldn't help but smile, "I know a woman's heart, Rhaegar. I can help. Please, let me help." Her pleadings could not be rejected, and Rhaegar kissed her sweetly.

"Thank you, Elia," he breathed. When she began to pull apart of the laces of her nightgown, Rhaegar helped.

\---

He was watching the one of the four Whent brothers joust when Jon Connington beside him blurted out, "You should take her and be done with it."

Rhaegar groaned inwardly. Ever since he revealed to Jon the identity of the winter maiden, Jon had been offering advice that was quite... aggressive.

"Jon, I will not rape her," he muttered back for what felt like the 100th time. His eyes darted briefly to Elia in the box beside him. She was surrounded by a dozen of her handmaidens on all sides except the front, where she sat dead center. Before the joust began, many of the participants asked for their favors, which they all gave with blushes and giggles.

"It is distasteful, but it may be the only way," his friend replied with a shrug. "Though I imagine she won't need much convincing to let you into her bed."

"I cannot simply walk into her tent and ask to be let into her bed," Rhaegar sighed, exasperated.

"She'll be mad to refuse," Jon grumbled, crossing his arms. 

"Even if she allows me, and the gods smile down upon us and get her with a child on the first time, how will she explain her growing stomach to her family?" Rhaegar asserted with a shake of his head. "Who is to say that her family won't make her drink moon tea? The Starks are an honorable house. Another man's child will not be tolerated." He had considered this before and ruled it out almost immediately. Still, Jon persisted.

"Have her swear it is Robert's," Jon said, referring to her betrothed, "She can lie with him the next night; the fool will likely believe it is his."

"And if she lies with him the next night, how will we know if the child is mine or his?"

Jon did not reply.

"Even if the child is mine," he stipulated, "It will be raised at Storm's End and not with me." Rhaegar glanced over to Jon, who was looking at him intently.

"My lord... perhaps..." Jon stammered. He cleared his throat and continued, "Perhaps that is a chance you must take." He sounded so grave that it was Rhaegar's turn to be silenced. As if sensing his discomfort, Jon quickly added, "But you are the prince. You should have the right to demand your child." It was loyal Jon again, the one who believed Rhaegar was capable of anything.

"Perhaps I want her as well," Rhaegar whispered, barely loud enough for Jon to hear. His friend caught it anyways.

"Then take her as a mistress. Convince Lord Stark to break off her betrothal," Jon insisted, "She may live at King's Landing as your whore, and when she births your child-"

"It will be a bastard," Rhaegar interrupted, meeting Jon's intense gaze. "It will be a slight on her honor-"

"The Others take her honor!" Jon cut in furiously.

"And mine," Rhaegar emphasized, "Legitimizing him will make him a Targaryen, and that is only if Lord Stark concedes, which he won't." It was a difficult situation that had no perfect ending, no matter how he went about it. It was only made worse by the fact that she was promised, and that she lived so far from King's Landing. Had she been just a chambermaid in the castle, it would have been far easier. Alas, it seems that the difficulties that the prince who was promised must face start before his conception.

"Lord Stark should be honored, damn him," Jon grumbled bitterly. Rhaegar let the conversation end there, unwilling to discuss it any further.

"You see how they were whispering, Varys?" His father suddenly hissed from his throne nearly three feet over, "Whispering, whispering, whispering. About me! No doubt it is about me," Rhaegar tried his best to ignore him. The stay thus far had taken quite a toll on his father, and his suspicion of him was amplified. Rhaegar found it was easier to always be by his side rather than listen to him fume about his absences later. Unfortunately, even that had done little to stem his accusations. "My son," he spat bitterly, as if ridding hiself of a bad taste in his mouth, "Always plotting, always whispering. I turn from him for a second and already he whispers!"

Varys did not reply, though Rhaegar knew he was wordlessly agreeing. _The only one with whispers is that spider,_ Rhaegar wanted to tell his mad father, but he was too far gone for reason. Jon shifted uncomfortably beside him and bowed his head to avoid meeting the king's wild-eyed look.

Rhaegar's eyes instead went to the joust before him. It was four brothers of the reigning Queen of Love and Beauty, the daughter of Lord Whent who was holding the tourney, that were working through the ranks. Already, 3 had fallen, and only one brother remained, but he was not the only one of his house. Ser Oswell Whent, the girl's uncle and a member of the kingsguard, was also in the ranks. As the jousting dragged on, all five of them were eliminated, and a handful of champions had held their places for the next day.

The crowds had begun to leave when Rhaegar's eyes went to the stands. There he spotted many familiar faces, but there was one notably missing. He found two Starks, Brandon and Eddard, walking alongside Robert Baratheon, but no Lyanna. In fact, even the littlest Stark was missing, and Rhaegar could only assume that they were together, as they always were at supper.

Rhaegar hoped he would see her then.

\---

When the mystery knight arrived the next day, he brought quite a stir with him. Immediately, the stands pulsed with questions, buzzed with delight as they watched him fell opponent after opponent. And what a queer sight he was: his armor was made of mismatched squares of steel held together by leather cords, his helm was dented and did well to cover his face, and everything on him appeared to be too big. Understandable, as the knight himself was small of stature, much unlike the larger men he continued to vanquish. On his helm was a painted sigil depicting a white weirwood with red leaves and a mirthful smile.

By the end of the day, the people had taken to calling him the Knight of the Laughing Tree.

There would be a still silence whenever he dipped his lance, paired with a tense anticipation in the stands. Every breath was held as he barreled forward on a horse that ran as sure as the wind; every lance he broke against his opponent garnered an eruption of cheers.

On the third day, he spoke.

"I joust to defend the honor of Lord Howland Reed," his voice boomed. This befuddled most everyone. The Reeds were a lesser house, to be sure, but also an inconspicuous one. It was later ascertained that he was a crannogman, and was found supping with the Starks. Lyanna always sat next to him, Rhaegar noted.

The knight challenged three squires of different houses: Haigh, Blount, and Frey, and he toppled all three of them. Instead of taking their armor and horses, he asked that they be taught honor. This mystery knight had taken most people by a storm, and for others he had riled one.

It was Robert Baratheon who cried it out first. "I'd like to see this mystery knight's face!" He was drunk and bolstered by the good opinion of his friends, one of whom seconded this request. It was jolly banter between men, but with a hint of envy in their tones. Such words should have gone unnoticed; but his father had taken it upon himself to notice.

"I would like to unmask the knight as well," he thundered, slamming a gnarled fist down onto the arm of his throne. The hall went silent, and a chill seemed to pass over. "If the knight does not present himself to me tomorrow morning," he paused, scanning the room as if he could will the man to step forward, "I will have him burned for treason," he snarled. 

Robert Baratheon sat down and no one spoke another word about the knight. They all underestimated the king's madness.

Rhaegar tried to speak with his father, to turn his opinion. "Father, it is not treason for a mystery knight to remain masked," he insisted, "You cannot do this."

King Aerys's nostrils flared at that. "I cannot do it?" He asked, sneering, "I am not dead yet, Rhaegar! I know you plot it, I know you wish it so, but I am not dead and I am still the king!" He was falling into a fit of madness now, and Rhaegar found himself wishing he hadn't spoken at all, "A man who does not wish to unmask himself to me is no friend at all. He will be a traitor," he panted, "And all traitors must be burned."

_Every criminal must be burned,_ Rhaegar thought, dismal, _From bread-thief to traitor, you burn them all._

Elia noticed how distraught he was that night and attempted to ease his mind. She laid her head on his chest and rubbed his stomach in circles as she spoke of happier things. "Rhaenys will not stop asking for her kitten," she murmured, and he felt her smiling, "She came to me this morning and began to cry for the kitten. Balerion, she calls it. Did you know she called it that?" He did, but spoke not, preferring instead the sound of her voice. "She said, 'I want Balerion, I want my dragon' and I told her we'd see it soon, that we are leaving in only a few days..."

And that's how he fell asleep, with cheerful thoughts and the soft tones of Elia's voice.

The next morning he heard an entirely different voice. "Rhaegar!" His father bellowed from his seat at the stadium. The Knight of the Laughing Tree did not show. Rhaegar didn't blame him.

"Yes father?" Rhaegar responded coolly, aware of his peoples' eyes on him, assessing him.

"Find that knight," he growled, his hands clenching into fists.

"Of course, father," Rhaegar replied. As he got up from his seat, he shot Elia a wary look, which she returned with a sweet smile. Rhaegar found his horse and mounted it, but felt as if he had been given an impossible task. The knight could be anywhere by now: the king's road if he was going home, a lesser road if he didn't want to be noticed- he could even be among the audience sitting in the stands right now, laughing as mirthfully as the weirdwood on his helm. Rhaegar decided he would search the forest nearby where at the very least he could get some peace.

His horse was at a slow trot when he entered the woods, just as exasperated as he was. Rhaegar looked around him, taking in the scenery; it was a woods like any other, vast and harboring its own mysteries. It smelled of grass and wet bark, and stood entirely still, its placidity only interrupted by the occasional breeze that rustled up the leaves. All was quiet save for his horse's hooves and the sound of his own breathing.

_A fool's errand,_ Rhaegar thought to himself, a bit disgruntled. Truly, his father had never-

_Clang, clang, clang, THUD._ The sudden noise halted both his thoughts and his horse. Rhaegar gripped the reins and looked around, fully alert, and strained his ears for another sound. He dismounted and walked on light feet, his hand gripping the sword at his side. He scanned the woods again, and he caught a glimpse of legs climbing up a tree in the distance. Rhaegar moved quickly, never losing sight of the tree, and found there was a cloth bag at the foot of it, filled 'til near bursting with items.

When he looked up he heard a gasp, but did not know if it was his own or the person's in the tree.

It was his winter maiden, Lyanna, and she was hanging a dented shield painted with a laughing weirwood on a branch.

Loose dark curls framed her long face which were set with eyes as grey as a stormy sea and full red lips. Her pale skin seemed to make these colors even brighter, more emphatic. A man's shirt billowed out over her torso, and she wore a pair of breeches that were rolled up to her shin. Rhaegar almost expected snow to whirl around her as it so often did in his dreams, but this was better- she was real.

Both were momentarily struck speechless, but it was Rhaegar who spoke first.

"Wouldn't they be surprised to see a woman had bested all those men?" He asked, an unexpected chuckle escaping his lips. He had become very happy all of a sudden. "And a highborn one at that."

Her eyes widened in panic for only a second before she narrowed them and her small hands gripped the branches on either side of her.

"A knight's worth is not based on sex," she retorted, her voice proud and strong. Rhaegar thought he may laugh out of delight, to finally hear her voice outside of his own mind. He pulled it together and said,

"No, it is not. But I fear it makes no difference with my father." At those words she blanched again, and her eyes darted around, searching for a way out. The fear in her eyes passed quickly and reverted to being hard and immovable again.

"I will not get down," she said, indignant. "You can't take me to him if I don't get down." There was childish stubborness to her words, one that made him recall his own daughter. _I want Balerion, I want my dragon_. Here, instead, Lyanna wanted her life.

"Very well then. I'll wait." Rhaegar leaned down and opened the cloth sack at his feet. Inside was the patchwork armor, and the roughened helm that bore that mysterious sigil. He pulled it out and held it in his hands, examining it up close. He ran his fingers over the bumps of paint, and knocked on it with his knuckles, testing its strength. "Why a laughing tree?" He asked, curious. She blinked at him, taken aback, before responding.

"It is a heart tree," she corrected, "And it was something I saw." She was guarded, discreet. 

"Aren't heart trees usually unhappy?" Rhaegar asked. He recalled the heart tree at King's Landing; it was an old grand thing, its white trunk bearing patches of grey and a mouth frozen in a haunting scream. As he examined the helm further, he realized she hadn't responded yet. When he looked back up, she was gone.

He threw the helm down and ran after her, as she had not gone far. She was a fast runner, but he was faster. When he caught sight of her long hair flying behind her, he broke into a sprint and reached out his hand, catching her elbow and sending the two of them toppling down.

He landed on top of her, pinning her down with his weight. They both were panting heavily, sweat forming on both their brows; her cheeks were red from exertion, and he found her much more beautiful this close up. Still fighting, she began to squirm and struggle under him, beating her fists on his shoulders and kicking her feet. He needed only to stay on top and hold her arms down until she stopped moving.

"Take me to him then!" She shouted, still breathing heavily, "Take me to the king, let him burn me!" Rhaegar couldn't recall seeing so much fire in a woman, and she stunned him into an amused silence, "Drag me in front of him and my brothers and all of Westeros! If he kills me, Brandon will kill you, he'll kill your father, and he won't stop there, for the north remembers. Kill me and winter will come, I swear it!" 

Lyanma was entirely serious, and her rage was genuine yet Rhaegar suddenly had a queer urge to laugh. It wasn't that he was making light of the situation, or that he found humor in her words- it was her ferocity that amused him beyond description. Still, she glared at him, her jaw set in determination, and she was expecting an answer.

"I will not have you killed," Rhaegar said calmly, a sharp contrast to her heated yells, "I would not afford my father the pleasure nor your family the strife." He got off her, stood up, and extended a hand to her. She sat up and looked at it cautiously, hesitating before accepting his help and getting to her feet. "Though a part of me wonders if winter is half as fearsome as you are," he chuckled, and her face flushed crimson- this time from embarassment.

"Y-You promise not to tell?" She squeaked warily, her eyes guarded no longer. Now she seemed much more vulnerable, more childlike, and Rhaegar smiled.

"I promise," he assured her, and her shoulders slumped in relief, "As long as you let me help you hide your armor, Lady Lyanna." She nodded, and the two of them made their way back to the tree where her shield hung. They found a hollow in a nearby tree where they threw in armor one by one, and it clanged loudly with each one that fell in. They performed the task in silence, leaving Rhaegar to admire her comfortably.

_The song of ice and fire,_ he thought to himself as he watched her clap the dirt off her hands, _I thought she was the ice, but perhaps I was wrong._ She could melt snow by glaring at it, this much he was sure of. She glanced over at him and hugged herself, anxious about something. She looked so small then, with her arms tight about her waist. Yet the way she spoke, what she was meant for, she might have been a giant.

"My lord?" She asked, an edge of uncertainty to her voice.

"Yes, my lady?" He would have like it much more to simply call her by her name.

"Why are you helping me?" After asking she bit her lip, as if fearing the answer. Perhaps she had every right to be afraid; she was alone in a thick forest with a man who had proved he could both outrun her and pin her down. He contemplated telling her the truth for a moment, that she would carry his prophesized son, that he needed her alive.

"You did nothing wrong," he replied with a soft smile, "You fought for your friend's honor. That does not deserve death," She did not look convinced, so he continued, "And despite popular opinion, I do not always obey my father. As I imagine you don't either."

When she smiled that kind little smile, Rhaegar felt an invisible pull on his flesh. He wanted to take her into his arms as he did so often before, kiss her to see if she tasted as sweet as in his dreams, feel her soft skin under his hands, for her to laugh as cheerfully, as carefree. Rhaegar did not realize he had taken steps toward her until their bodies were mere inches apart. The two of them simply stood there, still as statues, breathing the same air and locking eyes. Her eyes were familiar ones, so pale and gray and warm, deep enough to drown in but bright enough to be a saving grace.

"I suppose I better get going," she whispered, her gaze conspicuously darting to his lips, "Th-The excuse I've been giving my brothers has been... well worn out." He yearned to kiss that mouth, for it looked even lovelier when it was speaking.

Rhaegar nodded weakly. "Yes," was what he said, but not what he meant.

"Thank you, Prince Rhaegar," she murmured with a bow. And as suddenly as she appeared, she had disappeared, and Rhaegar was left with a chill and an urge to chase after her.


	14. Lyanna // Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna reflects on the meeting in the woods. She is crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, and hates it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Next chapter will be our favorite Dornish princess :)

Lyanna ran all the way back to her tent. She didn't stop once to catch her breath, the whirlwind of emotions in her head distracting her from any exhaustion.

_Prince Rhaegar._ Those were the words that echoed in her mind, over and over, and in many different ways. In panic, fear, delight, awe- it was all that and many others she couldn't put a finger on. When she reached her tent, she flopped down on the bed, panting, and looked up at the cloth ceiling. _Prince Rhaegar,_ her mind screamed, and she closed her eyes tight to expel the thought.

When she had gone to the woods to hide her equipment, and she couldn't help but feel that it was all Robert's fault. The idiot who had yet to apologize had merrily cried out in the middle of supper to unmask the Knight of the Laughing Tree (she quited liked that name), and the king agreed, but with fire where Robert had planned to do it out of envy. She would have liked him to join the tourney so that she may fell him; it would humble the git some.

She had worked so hard on that armor too. Her, Benjen, and Howland scoured the campgrounds and stalls for scrap metal and leather; they had missed an entire day of jousting for it, the very day when Ser Oswell had participated. They were only sorry to miss the knight of the kingsguard, whereas Lyanna was fairly upset. 

Nonetheless, they had rummaged the materials and with no lack of effort on any of their parts, they got to work. Lyanna punched holes in the misshapen pieces of metal with a hammer and a spike, difficult work that cramped her fingers. Benjen and Howland looped leather cords through those holes and knotted each one several times over. While they fitted Lyanna many times, the breastplate remained large on her and rattled loudly when she walked.

It was Lyanna who painted the sigil onto the helm and sheild. Benjen prattled off suggestions from the mundane to the abstract, but Lyanna knew what she wanted from the start. It was the heart tree in the godswood at Winterfell, the one she swore smiled at her for only an instant when she prayed before it. It was not laughing as the people thought. It was merely a smile, something that was both real and imaginary to her.

It was all gone now. Those grueling hours of work all ended up in the hollow of a plain tree in a plain forest. She found solace in the idea that they might write songs about her. While they lauded "his" bravery and skill, none would know that the knight was a woman who had never jousted before. She knew only how to ride.

_Prince Rhaegar,_ the voice in her head sighed. Yes, Prince Rhaegar. Never before had she felt so many emotions in such a short period of time. Panic at being caught, shock at the man who had caught her, and then a bout of courage that kept her up in the tree and hissing remarks at the crown prince. Then relief when she snuck out of the tree, fear as he outran her and pinned her down, rage as she warned him of what would come, and then...

_Then what?_ She had felt her heart beating, a loud thumping in her ears that was from more than just exertion. When he extended a hand to help her up to her feet, she reddened and she lost her brave words. He helped her and asked nothing in return. When she announced she had to leave, he had leaned in close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. For a moment she thought he might kiss her, but that notion proved to be another one of her silly hopes. Still, everything he did for her seemed too good to be true.

_He truly is a prince,_ Lyanna thought, _Helping his people while asking nothing in return._ When her breathing returned to normal, Lyanna quickly changed into a dress. It was when she was slipping shoes on that Benjen stormed into her tent, with Howland not far behind him. The two of them were breathing heavily, having ran from the stadium to here.

"Did you hide them?" Benjen gasped, his eyes wide with worry.

"Yes," Lyanna replied. He sighed with relief before bending down and leaning his hands on his knees, winded. "Rhaegar- Prince Rhaegar helped." Benjen snapped his head up at this.

"The prince?" Benjen asked, incredulous, "Lyanna did he... Are you... Will he tell?" Lyanna shook her head. He was just as disbelieving as she was, and with good reason. Even she still didn't understand. "But... why?"

"I do not know," Lyanna shrugged, "He is kind. He asked for nothing." Absolutely nothing.

"Lyanna," Howland said from behind Benjen, his voice soft as it always was, "You have done much for me. You put yourself in the way of many dangers. The honor was mine upon meeting you and your brothers, yet you fought to restore it." He made his way over to her and kneeled, pulling the spear off his back and laying it at her feet. "I owe you a great debt. Know that you may call on me at any time, that I will follow you into anything." He bowed his head. "Thank you."

Lyanna felt her eyes sting with tears. Her father spoke of this before, that true loyalty from your allies comes only from meeting them, speaking with them, understanding them. Lyanna had done that and more, and she was rewarded with that true loyalty.

"Please stand, Howland," she commanded with a shaky voice. He obeyed, and Lyanna stood with him. In a fit of emotion, she threw her arms around the small man. He hesitated, most likely surprised, before returning the embrace.

"Oi, hurry it up you two," Benjen exclaimed, his hands on his hips, "We'll miss Brandon's joust!" Lyanna and Howland broke apart and exchanged a warm smile. She looked over at her impatient little brother, before going to him and ruffling his hair.

"You ought to bend the knee too," she teased gleefully, "The joust was your idea, and I nearly burned for it." Benjen gave a childish scowl before heading out from the tent. Lyanna laughed and she heard Howland give a little chuckle.

She would miss this.

\---

At supper, Brandon wouldn't stop his boasting. He had done extraordinarily well that day, and earned his spot as a champion so that he may joust tomorrow and (in his own mind) win. He had a small crowd of men and some women gathered around him as he boasted of his conquests. In the midst of all this, he raised a glass and looked over at Lyanna. 

"Let us raise a glass to my sweet sister," he proclaimed, and Lyanna narrowed her eyes suspicuously, "Who finally joined the stands after her battle with her moon's blood." The crowd around him guffawed loudly, and Lyanna felt herself redden. Oh, she will hurt him for that, for using her excuse against her. It was the only thing she could tell them that wouldn't raise suspicions about her not attending the tourney. It was a lie, but they were none the wiser.

"Dearest Brandon," Lyanna began, an edge of bitterness to her voice, "Surely you know better than to jape with a woman who's lost more blood in a few days than you have in your entire life." She gave him a tight-lipped smile as the crowd around him broke out into more laughs. Brandon shot her an unamused look and downed his glass.

Suddenly, the doors to the dining hall opened with a crash and a group of knights walked in and presented themselves to King Aerys at the end of the hall. Everyone fell silent, their focus now rapt to their king. Ser Gerold Hightower was at the front, fearsome in his scaled armor, and he spoke for the men, his voice booming, "Your grace, we have failed in finding mystery knight." The king's wild eyes widened, and his lips turned down in a sneer. "We found his shield, and his armor," he conceded, and motioned for a man to come forward with the ramshackle equipment. Lyanna quickly glanced over at her brother, who was biting his lip, anxious. Howland, on the other hand, was stoic, with no hint of emotion on his ruddy face. "There is no other trace of the knight, your grace."

The king began to hiss curses at the knights, damning their incompetece, insisting that they were defending the treacherous knight. His long nails dug into the wooden throne and spittle flew from his lips, rage oozing out of his every pore. He was a frightening sight to see, but Lyanna silently thanked the gods that it was them, and not her, who would face the king's wrath.

Lyanna averted her gaze to look at Robert a few tables over, drinking and laughing with his friends. He hadn't spoken to her since she stormed out of his tent, though she may have purposely made herself unavailable. She wanted to hear him apologize, to beg her forgiveness, but it seemed he was either too feeble or too proud to do so. Lyanna liked to think that it was the former. Her eyes flitted to Rhaegar at the front of the hall, and she took note of how different they are.

Robert was dark of hair with the shadow of a beard on his strong-featured face. He was square-jawed, and his nose was straight save for a small ridge, likely due to a fracture in his younger years. Everything about him emanated masculinity, strength, youthful arrogance. Rhaegar's features were more...

_Gentle._ Yes, gentle. His hair shone softly with the color and sheen of spun silver. It reached his shoulders in waves, not nearly as curly as Robert's short locks. He had prominent cheekbones, high on his face, and lips as inviting as any Lyanna had ever seen. Lips that sang beautiful songs, that whispered kind words. Perhaps most striking of all his features were his eyes. They were dark purple and sparkled with intelligence and depth. They were nothing like Robert's, which were as blue as the sea yet not nearly as deep. His eyes only sparkled when drunk or full of lust. Lyanna did not drown in them as she did Rhaegar's.

The only thing they shared was their build. Tall and muscular, the two of them were both fearsome sights in their armor. The similarities, however, ended there. Gazing at Rhaegar now, she understood why her handmaidens fawned over him so. There was not a thing about him that was not attractive. A faithful man with his beautiful wife and his lovely children. A kind man. A good man. A man she was inexplicably attracted to. She was no better than any of the girls, she realized now. Those mysterious lilac eyes had hooked her in as they did everyone else.

"Lya?" Benjen said quizzically beside her, forcing her back into the present. "Are you okay?" He looked so worried, her little brother. That was Benjen, after all. Thoughtful and sweet. She would miss him.

"I'm fine," she replied with a small smile. She wasn't fine. She was struck to the bone with a feeling, the very same one that she felt when she first laid eyes on the prince. It stung, burned and delighted her all at once. She was filled with breathless wonder and overwhelming sorrow that both brought a smile to her lips and a lump in her throat. It was all due to a silver prince who spoke with a golden tongue.

\---

Lyanna let out a desperate cry when Prince Rhaegar unhorsed Brandon. She flew to the rails and leaned over them, her eyes locked on her brother laying still in the dirt with blood on his lips. He did not writhe or struggle or gasp and yet that only heightened her fear. She felt a hand on her shoulder and Ned's voice behind her, but did not stir until Brandon sat up and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Lyanna heaved a sigh of relief, and let Ned lead her back to her seat beside him. She watched breathlessly as the prince dismounted and offered a hand to her brother, which he accepted with a bitter scowl.

Prince Rhaegar had been unstoppable. He joined the ranks so suddenly on this final day of the tourney, and plowed through them effortlessly. Even as he challenged her own brother, she was silently cheering for him. How could she not? He was an image of greatness upon his white horse, donned in black armor bearing the dragon of his house on the breastplate in red rubies. Whenever he pulled his helmet off, his pale hair and clear skin was a beacon of light among all that black. It was as if he were something out of a storybook.

Lyanna did not relax until Brandon sat beside her, disgruntled and with a bruised ego. He mumbled bitterly over his loss and glowered at the gallant prince atop his horse. Lyanna chuckled and he threw her a resentful look. She would miss this.

The prince continued to conquer his opponents, one right after the other. Every soul in attendance held their breath as he went up against Ser Arthur Dayne. Benjen behind her was clutching her shoulder in anticipation, as Rhaegar broke one, two, three lances on the Sword of the Morning, who remained on his horse for each time. On the fourth, he fell, and crowd cheered as Benjen gawked. "He beat him, Lya, he beat him," he repeated over and over, shaking her shoulder. Lyanna bit her lip to hide her satsified smile.

The final champion was Ser Barristan Selmy, a man who was no stranger to tourneys. Benjen was a fan of his as well, and had gushed over the fact that he had been a mystery knight himself twice before, that she was doing what Ser Barristan himself was doing. As the two competitors lowered their helms and dipped their lances, the audience fell as silent as the dead again.

It took only two lances to unhorse Barristan the Bold, and the masses were on their feet cheering for the prince. Lyanna caught herself clapping and grinning widely herself, much to the chagrin of Brandon beside her who had crossed his arms and scowled instead. _He won,_ she cried out in her thoughts, _He won, as he should. He won._ This was the old gods' reward for him, for helping a daughter of the north. They lended the power to his lance-arm and speed to his horse, and through that, he won, as a veritable force of nature.

To the victor goes the spoils, as they say, and he was to crown his Queen of Love and Beauty. It was a flower crown of blue roses, a most delicate and lovely thing. The people were still roaring as the crown was hung on his lance, and as he rode around the stadium.

When he passed his wife Elia of Dorne, the cheers died down. Wild murmurs sparked instead, as he did not spare a second glance at his wife, instead riding to someone else- as he was riding to Lyanna. He halted his horse before her, and gave her a small knowing smile as he laid the crown in her lap. Lyanna's mouth went dry and her hands began to shake as he felt hundreds of pairs of eyes on her. The sound of countless whispers formed a hiss that seemed to hang in the air. As if compelled to do so, Lyanna's gaze flitted from Rhaegar to Elia, who bore a smile so sorrowful that it felt as if a spike was driven through her heart. Never had she seen a woman so sad, so heartbroken, yet so graceful and calm at the same time. Her cool exterior masked a storm that wracked Lyanna's mind with guilt. The stadium began to spin before her, and as Rhaegar rode off, she swore she saw three of him.

"Brandon," a voice she recognized as Ned's called beside her. He sounded so far away; too far to comfort her, "Take her to her tent, please." She felt a rough arm pull her to her feet by the elbow, and she caught the crown that nearly fell off her lap. As her brother began to lead her away, Lyanna looked back, where her eyes flew straight to Robert. His face was contorted into a mask of rage. _Ours is the fury._ She looked in front of her again, the images of Elia's smile and Robert's anger weighing heavy on her loaded mind.

Brandon did not say a word until they reached her tent, where he coarsely threw her onto her bed and began to bellow curses she'd never heard before. Rhaegar is this, Rhaegar is that; every word dripped with hate, with disgust. Lyanna could only watch in horror until he turned to her.

"Why did he give you that crown?" He asked with narrowed eyes. Before she had a chance to answer, he continued, "What did you do to him? What did you tell him? Why you?" He grabbed her by the shoulders and Lyanna found she could not meet his cruel eyes. This was not Brandon. This was the wolf inside him growling and biting. He shook her hard, and shouted, "Tell me!"

She burst into tears and blurted out the truth, that she was the mystery knight, that she went into the woods yesterday morning to hide her armor and that Rhaegar had helped. At the mention of the prince, he began to bellow again.

"He _helped_ you? Why?" he thundered, his grip on her becoming tighter. Lyanna herself did not know the answer, and she shrugged, her choking sobs being the only noise coming out of her mouth. "A man does not help a pretty girl without wanting something in return, Lyanna, no matter how good and faithful." She could see where this was going. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" She sobbed, shaking her head vigorously, "Nothing, nothing, I swear!"

Brandon was not satisfied. "Did you suck his cock? Or maybe he just wanted a quick tug as payment?" Lyanna shouted frantic nos, but he continued, "Are you still a maid? Gods help me, Lyanna, if you fucked him to stay silent and give you that damned crown, I'll kill him and let your bastard of a betrothed know what a slut you are. He'll stop giving you eyes then, now won't he?"

"Stop it!" Lyanna cried, pushing her palms flat against him, forcing his iron grip off her. "I did nothing, Brandon, I swear, he asked for nothing, I would never- _never_." She let out a childish wail and buried her face in her pillow, muffling her loud sobs. It was nothing like what her mad brother was saying, he was kind, courteous, thoughtful, sweet...

She felt the bed sink beside her as her brother sat down. He placed a hand on her back, gentle unlike his harsh grip from before, and Lyanna sat up and buried her face in his chest, wetting his doublet with tears. He put another hand on the back of her head and held her to him as he apologized softly. His rage had passed, and Lyanna felt safe again.

That was how they found them when her brothers and Robert walked in. They pulled apart and Lyanna wiped frantically at her tear-stained face and runny nose, letting out a nervous hiccup as she did so.

"Lyanna," Ned's voice said calmly, much unlike how his older brother yelled her name, "I do not know why he gave you the crown, and I pray you don't either." She shook her head, and he nodded. "But many have begun to form their own ideas. There are whispers, Lyanna..." He trailed off. Lyanna thought she might cry again. She was sick of whispers, of prying eyes; she wanted no more but to hide in the hollow of the tree where her armor had been, alone and in the dark about such matters.

"He's a bastard," Robert suddenly hissed, venom dripping off his sharp words, as if they were poisoned blades, "He is no prince. He is a man without fear of the gods or men. A man who's read a million damned books and yet he proves to be stupid!" His voice was rising in volume and a bitter scowl was plastered on his face. No one stopped his curses, not Ned, not Brandon, and Benjen's eyes simply flitted nervously from one person to the other. Her oldest brother was smirking, agreeing with the man he supposedly hated, and Lyanna suddenly felt betrayed. He continued to bellow, but one curse caught her attention. "He is a man without honor-"

"What do you know of honor?" Lyanna interrupted, her words as acrid as his. He stared at her, dumbfounded for a moment, as if he had just noticed her there, noticed she had a voice.

"I know honor is man who crowns his wife, not a woman who belongs to someone else," he replied, his tone no softer than before. Lyanna rose to her feet, enraged.

"Belongs?" She laughed bitterly, shaking her head, "I belong to no one, Robert Baratheon, and you'd do well to remember that."

"You belong to me!" He thundered, as he stepped closer to her, his large form towering over her. "You and that damned prince would do well to remember that!"

Lyanna's blood ran hot, and she raised her head to meet his furious eyes, not intimidated. "I am not your wife yet, and even when I am, I will not belong to you. I am not a thing to be shown off every so often, to keep in your pocket and use whenever you like. I am Lyanna Stark, daughter of the north, and I belong to no one but the gods, and only when I'm dead will they own me." They were proud, bold words, and they were honest words. They were words that displeased Robert greatly, as he grabbed her roughly by the arm and hissed,

"You belong to me." It was then that someone came to her rescue, not that she needed rescuing.

"Keep your hands off her, Baratheon," Brandon warned, now on his feet behind Lyanna. She couldn't help but smirk, and she saw the fire in Robert's eyes grow bigger at her impudence. "She is not yours yet for you to touch."

Robert raised a brow. "Aye, but she will be," he said it as a warning, and gave a little smirk of his own, "And when she is, she'll learn who she belongs to. And so will that ass of a prince." He parted with those words, and Lyanna was glad to see him go.

Ned heaved an exasperated sigh, rubbing his forehead as he did so. "We will take you to supper this evening," he told Lyanna, his voice firm like his father's, "You will walk with either Brandon or myself. You will sup in silence. Do not meet anyone's gaze. Until we come for you, you do not stir from your tent. Are we understood?" Lyanna nodded meekly, the fight suddenly leaving her body. She felt very tired all of a sudden. "Good. We'll leave you, then." He motioned to his brothers to come, and they did so wordlessly, each walking out without sparing her another word or a second glance. Only Benjen looked over his shoulder to give her a worried look before disappearing.

Lyanna sat down on her bed and held the damned crown in her hands. It was really quite lovely, adorned with her favorite flowers. They were the blue winter roses that grew only in the cold, as they wilted quickly when sown in warm soil. She placed the crown on her head. She was away from all eyes here, alone in her tent, and she would hear no one speak ill of her. She was at peace.

Sleep suddenly came upon her, as she had been enervated by her tears and her rage. She slept well until Ned came to her when night fell and roused her awake. The room fell silent when she walked through the doors of the dining hall, before whispers kicked up again. It was an unnvering supper, between the glares of Elia's handmaidens, the jealous look of other women, and the scrutinizing gaze of men. They were all judging her, comparing her. Was she worth passing over a wife for? What had she done to deserve it? Lyanna wanted to stand up and tell them all, _I'm nothing, I'm not worth it, it's a mistake._ It did not help that Rhaegar was not present. Only Elia was there, smiling sweetly with her darling children in her lap, looking the very image of beauty and grace. Lyanna thought of her sad smile and found it hard to stay as calm as she was.

When she returned to her tent, her brothers bid her goodnight, and Ned announced that they would leave on the morrow. Lyanna was relieved at that. She sat on her bed and her eyes went to her pillow where the crown lay, and she found something underneath it. It was a letter with a blank seal. Lyanna glanced around her tent quickly to be sure that there was no one there, and she unfurled the paper.

_I imagine you want an explanation. Meet me at our tree._

_-R_

Even with the blank seal and the one initial, she knew who it was from. A sudden wave of anger washed over her. _It's his fault,_ she told herself, suddenly disillusioned by the prince. _It is his fault they are all staring, that they all despise me, that his wife is humiliated. It is his fault._ With newfound energy, Lyanna rummaged through her chest of clothes for a cloak as black as night, and draped it over her shoulders. She grabbed the flower crown off her bed and the lantern by her bedside before pulling her hood up and making her way to the woods.

She knew what tree he meant, of course, as it was the grand one with the hollow that once held her armor. She found him first by his own light, as he carried a lantern with him as well. Lyanna stomped into the light with a grimace, and paid no mind to his illuminated beauty. She was terribly furious for the second time today.

"How could you!" She bellowed, pulling off the hood so that he may see the fury in her eyes, "You dishonored your wife and you dishonored me. My brothers think I've done something wrong, my betrothed has gone mad with envy, and everyone else in this place thinks ill of me." The prince simply stood in silence, his face as still as stone. This only heightened her rage. "I do not want your crown," she hissed, tossing down the pretty wreath of roses on the ground between them, "Take it and give it to your wife, as you should have from the start."

The prince shook his head. "I crowned you for a reason, Lady Lyanna," he murmured, "I wished very much to see you again." Lyanna's breath caught in her throat.

"Why?" She managed to squeak, her anger squashed all of a sudden. Why her?

"I cannot help but feel that we are fated to meet more than once," he stepped toward her now, and Lyanna froze. "When I first laid eyes on you, I wanted to speak to you. The gods allowed me that in the woods yesterday, but I fear I did not say what I wished to say." His words knocked down her walls, and she suddenly felt very vulnerable. "Lyanna- May I call you that?"

"Of course," she breathed, nodding her head slightly. Her name sounded so poetic on his tongue.

"Lyanna," he seemed to taste the word in her mouth. "Did you feel it too? When you first saw me, were you struck breathless, as I was?" Yes, she wanted to say. A million times, yes. "Did you see past my skin and into my heart, as I did yours?" Yes. Yes. "I saw fears unspoken in you, and it's affected me as well. What pains you, Lyanna?" He was inches apart from her now, as close as Robert would be when he leaned in for a kiss. But it was not a kiss that Rhaegar wanted; he wished to _hear_ her mouth move, not feel it.

"I'm marrying a man I do not love," she murmured, "He's a brute who won't stay to one bed, who'll love me until he becomes bored of me," the words flew past her lips, beyond her control. He was the first one to listen and Lyanna forgot that he was the prince. "I'm doing it for my father, for the good of our house, but..." Unbidden tears filled her eyes and blurred Rhaegar's face before her, "I don't want to. I fear our wedding night. I fear our life together, how it will change everything. I do not love him enough to accept that." It felt as if a weight was lifted off her shoulders, and the words kept coming. She spoke through the tears that came later, and she yielded to arms when he asked if he may hold her.

"I understand," he murmured into her hair, and Lyanna knew he meant it.

She returned to her tent with a full heart and her crown of flowers atop her head.


	15. Elia // Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duty drove Elia to do everything she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful comments! Enjoy :)

She was trying to do her duty. When he played his pretty song on those silver strings, Elia pretended as if it was for her. She shared her handmaidens' smiles, and blushed at their excitable giggles. Yet even then, she knew it was not about her. He sang of winter, of cold winds blowing about a maid fair. Elia was the sun. She knew nothing about snows. She smiled out of duty.

When Rhaegar confirmed her fears, Elia tried not to show her sorrow. She had been a cold wife for many moons to her husband, yet he did not stray from her bed. Her many ills had kept him from practicing his right, but comforted her to know that he was faithful, at least in this world. It appeared, however, that in his mind he had been carrying on an affair with a beautiful apparation who was an apparation no more. 

Yet he spoke so passionately and held her face so softly, she could not find it in her to voice her pain. She could not tell him that she cared not for his prophecies, not if it drove him away from her. She remember how he had held Aegon with awe in his eyes and declared that this was the prince, what he had been waiting for. He kissed her so sweetly then, so full of love and reverance, that even in her weak condition she felt the heat in his veins. Now there was a another woman, another prince, and Elia feared he would forget her. He wrote a song for this woman, dreamed of her, and now he planned to bed her. These were things Rhaegar used to do for Elia, and no one else.

But how could she say no? It was duty that drove her to compliance, but cunning that asked him if she may help. If he were to woo another woman, she would rather she knew the details before anyone else. Elia did not want to hear secondhand of Rhaegar's actions, for the world to pity her, for this Lyanna Stark to share something secret with her husband. Elia wanted to be the first to know. If Elia must share Rhaegar, she preferred she knew more than Lyanna. This was where Elia was her truly her mother's daughter. _Be the first to know and the first to act,_ he mother had told her once, _You may better yourself only through knowledge that you are not supposed to have._

When Rhaegar told her that he met his maiden in the woods, she pretended as if it didn't bother her that they were alone together. When he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty, she acted as if it didn't kill her inside. But Rhaegar never told her that he would that. When Elia retired to her chambers that evening, Rhaegar was not there. So instead she cried bitterly that it was this stranger, and not her, who was crowned. She beat her small fists against her pillow and sobbed until she could sob no more. Then she washed her face and stayed up for him.

When he did arrive, Elia could not hold her tongue any longer. "Why did you crown her?" was all she asked.

"I'm sorry," was all he had to say. Elia waited for him to speak again, but he did not.

"You will tell me before you do something like this again," she said firmly, much unlike her soft-spoken self. He only nodded. He was distracted, she realized. His mind was elsewhere. It was then that Elia decided she would try something. She stood and walked to him, and he looked at her as if she were a stranger. Standing on her toes, she kissed his lips; they were cold and moved not, as still as stone. When she pulled away she found no trace of emotion on his face. "You were with her," Elia whispered. Rhaegar did not respond.

She suddenly felt light-headed and the room began to sway. Pressing the heel of her hand to her temple, she turned away from him and climbed into bed. "Is it done then?" She murmured with a shaky voice. _Have you bedded her? Are you done with her now?_

"No," he replied.

It was duty that told her to stay silent.

The road back to King's Landing was a long one, and she had much time to think. She thought of her brothers, of their pride and what they would say of her husband chasing a prophecy so. Namely, she thought of Oberyn. Sharp, brash Oberyn whose blood ran hotter than any Targaryen's dragon's breath, who hated Rhaegar from the start. The night their betrothal was sealed, Oberyn had come to her chambers to hiss bitterly that Rhaegar was not worthy of her, that she deserved a Dornish man and Dornish rights, that King's Landing was no place for a woman of her worth. She had smiled sweetly to her brother then, and assured him that the prince was a good man.

"A good man," he spat harshly, "Not the best."

Their wedding night did not include a bedding, as per Rhaegar's request, though the king was quite miffed over that. He protested loudly during the wedding, that tradition was at stake through forgoing the bedding. Yet Elia sensed that was not what bothered him the most about the union. Rhaegar was marrying her because he had no sisters; the Targaryen bloodline was at stake, and tradition was tarnished through her.

When they went to their wedding bed, Rhaegar had asked her consent.

"It is your right," she had told him, taken aback by his courtesy.

He only shook his silver head and said, "And it is your body."

While the bedding that night was more out of duty than passion, Elia knew from then that she would grow fond of him- and she was right. Her husband slowly revealed his passionate whims over the first few moons of their marriage, but had pulled back the night he had unintentionally hurt her. Elia sensed his restraint after that, that he did not move as fast as he used to, and was terribly mindful of her health to the point of fearing for it. He was a good husband, a kind husband, and he always seemed to be thinking. When he lost himself in his thoughts, Elia knew it best to leave him be. He would turn melancholy and cold during and after these bouts, and often spent the rest of the day without uttering a single word to anyone.

It felt like that now. It was as if he was constantly swimming in the seas of his own mind, too distracted to speak to her or anyone else. He did not say more than a few words to her on the road, and thus the trip felt very lonely. She had only the comfort of her children now: giggling Rhaenys who looked and behaved like a Martell, with her dark hair, green eyes, and bronzed skin and quiet Aegon who cried very little and bore dark purple eyes and a head of brown curls. They were the greatest gifts the gods had ever granted her, despite the great pains they brought her. Elia had felt the cold hand of death gripped around her throat when she gave birth to Aegon. It was worth it for a son that was meant to please her husband immensely.

 

Upon reaching King's Landing, she saw little of her husband, as he was always off with one man or another discussing matters of the kingdom. In the evenings, he was holed up in his office, writing letter after letter, sending some and throwing away most. It took all her courage to intrude one night and ask him what he had been doing.

"Making allies," he said, his focus still on the papers before him, "Writing to Maesters and scholars. Writing to the friends of my house. Writing to Lyanna." His name sounded so comfortable on his lips, almost loving.

"Why... why did you not tell me?" Elia asked in a small voice, feeling betrayed once again.

"I do not want to hurt you," he responded, sounding equally minute. "I do not wish to make obvious that I am dishonoring you." At least he knew that he did so.

"Does anyone else know of her?" She could not bring herself to say her name.

"Only my most trusted men. Jon, Gerold, Oswell, and Arthur," he replied. Those were heavy names he had on his tongue.

"What role do they play?" She asked curious. _You may better yourself only through knowledge that you are not supposed to have._ Her mother's voice said.

"Friends. For now," he responded, cryptic, before going back to his letters. He was slipping from her. She wanted him back.

"The children have not seen much of you lately," she murmured, draping her arms on his chest, her chin resting on the top of his head. "Perhaps you can find the time to see them?" _Our children. The ones we have together. The ones that are here now._

"I will try," he conceded, shifting in her arms.

"Do you think... you could..." She slipped a hand under the collar of his shirt, rubbing the warm skin. As she began to press her lips to his temple, he pulled her hand out and shook his head.

"I am busy," he said gruffly, as if he could spare no time for his own wife. When Elia nodded and left without another word, it was out of duty.

Now duty was clawing at her heart instead of protecting it as it used to. Seeing her husband write letters to another woman pained her, never knowing what was inside them left her feeling helpless. One morning, curiousity overcame her and she snuck into his office to sift through his crumbled up papers on the floor, opening each one to find her name, before smashing it up again. When she found one, she remained kneeling as she read it, her legs shaking with anticipation.

_Dearest Lyanna,_

It pains me that I cannot be there to ease your troubles, to hold you as I did only two moons ago and breath you in. Perhaps it may bring you calm for you to know that

It ended there. Sweet words that were once hers now belonged to a she-wolf. 

That night she found she could stay silent no longer. When Rhaegar came to her bed, late as he usually was, she leaned on her forearm and turned toward him. "Rhaegar," she whispered to his turned back. He rolled over and sat up, his eyes meeting hers. They were focusing for once, she realized, finally concentrating on her. "Have you forgotten me?" Her voice was quaking against her will.

"Whatever do you mean?" He asked, oblivious.

"You've lost affection for me," she felt tears spring into her eyes, which she squinted away. "I wonder if you think of me at all anymore. You do not share your secrets with me as you did. You do not seek out my opinion. You come to bed late and you don't..." she trailed off and lowered her gaze. Her throat tightened and tears threatened to spill, when suddenly the words of her house came to mind. _Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken._ Elia was the sun. A mere she-wolf was not worth her tears.

"My apologies, sweet Elia," he murmured his voice as smooth as silk. It was the tone he reserved for her, one that was so much different than the iron ones he served his men. "I've been preoccupied with many tasks." He lifted her chin up and smiled softly at her. 

"How many of those tasks are Lyanna Stark?" She asked boldly. He frowned at that and averted his gaze. Elia sensed she had gone too far and doubled back, "I'm sorry, my lord-"

"No, you are right," Rhaegar conceded, still frowning. "I have been distant. But I swear to you, it is not due to lack of affection." He looked back at her with somber eyes. "What do you wish to know, my love?"

Elia blinked. There were so many things she wanted to ask, so many questions that plagued her mind. She went with a more obvious one. "What is it that you do all day?" His secret comings and goings, riding from one village to the next...

"I meet with many men. With Jon, namely, to discuss the matter of the my father, how we may overthrow him," he spoke so plainly, but his words took Elia by surprise. "You have noticed that he has gotten worse. Everyone has. Through foul or fair play, he must go."

"He is your father," Elia blurted out, stating the obvious. She knew he was a terrible man, but it shocked her nonetheless that his own son was plotting his death.

"Even so, I bear him no love. Nor does my mother or Viserys."

Elia thought of Oberyn's poisoned blades. A drop of what he coated his swords with would kill the king. Just a little bottle poured into his food... If had not a taster that tried his every meal and every wine. Elia saw her husband's predicament, but found no advice to accompany it. She shivered, perturbed by the thought, and decided to change the subject. "What of your writing at night?" She asked, recalling the crumbled letter on the floor. _Dearest Lyanna..._

"I write to maesters and scholars and the men I can trust outside of King's Landing," he hesitated, and Elia knew what he was going to say next, "And I write to Lyanna."

"What do you tell her?"

"My thoughts of her. I ask about her health. She trusts me with her secrets."

_But do you trust her with yours, as you do me?_ Elia wanted to ask.

"Does she know what you want from her?" Elia asked tenatively. A small part of her wished to garner some guilt from him, to see his intentions as they are. She saw from Rhaegar's blank expression that he had not yet told her.

"That time will come," Rhaegar remarked with a tight-lipped grimace. "Elia, I-" He said hurridly, before stopping himself. Seeing her chance, Elia sat up straight and pressed him,

"What is it?"

"I..." His hand flew to his lower lip, as it often did when he was considering something. He was not telling her something important. "I fear no matter what I do, I dishonor you," he murmured faintly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Elia placed a hand on his smooth cheek, and he turned to kiss her palm. "My lord," she said with bright eyes, unusually formal, "There is your honor as well."

"My honor means nothing to me," Rhaegar deadpanned, "This is something I must fulfill. This world needs my prince." Elia flinched at the mention of the prophecy.

"There is too much risk," Elia protested, hoping to change his mind and bring him back to her, "If you doing anything with this girl, there will be war. Her house and her betrothed's house are too proud to allow any slight on her honor, even if it is from a prince." _Forget her. Here I am. She is a thousand miles away and I am right here._

Rhaegar fell silent, and Elia prayed it meant that his mind was changed. She took of advantage of this and continued, "How much are you willing to risk for a prophecy written scores of years ago? If it is unfounded-"

"It is not," he cut in sharply, "It was written not only in books, but in the stars. I have spent many nights under the night sky in Sunmerhall, Elia, and I swear the ghosts there have spoken to me," He met her gaze, now hard and passionate. "I am willing to risk all. It is not war I fear, for it has been threatening us for many years now. Houses everywhere are at my father's back; already they plot. I am among them. If war comes with the Starks at the front instead of myself, then so be it." It scared her when he spoke of war. It scared her even more that he was willing to fight one over this woman. She decided she would try one last time to deter him.

"My lord, please, for my sake," she began desperately, taking his hands into hers and pressed her lips to his knuckles, "Do not do this. I cannot bear to see you go into war over this. If you die..." A sob shook her shoulders, and a salty tear ran down her face and onto his hand. He pulled himself from her grasp, holding her face instead.

"Elia, my sweet, please. Your tears flow early," His voice was softer now, his eyes kind, but Elia could see that she did not sway him. "I do not plan to see much battle. I must stay with her and the child as long as I can. I cannot allow myself to die before I see my father off the throne."

_He doesn't understand,_ she thought sorrowfully. He thought not of her, or of his children, or even himself, but rather of the people who lived in his kingdom. The prince was to be born so that he may serve the world. His father must perish so that the people may have a good king. Her husband was surely made to rule, to govern an entire kingdom, as he cared little for anything else.

After that night she stopped asking him questions regarding his activities. Elia found herself spending more time with her children, just the three of them in a large room with large windows that poured sunlight into every corner. The times that Rhaegar would join, the room seemed even brighter. He would tickle Rhaenys until she turned red in the face and sing to Aegon in his arms. It was these times she treasured most, for they were the only times Elia felt whole.

He continued to come to bed late, still sitting by the light of a lantern writing letters well into the night. The rare nights he arrived when she was still awake, he would ask nothing of her other than the simplest questions: _How are you? How are the children? I hear you are feeling ill; what is it that ails you?_ She asked him simple questions of her own, and he replied with simple answers. He didn't mention Lyanna and neither did she.

This went on for nearly six moons, the two of them pretending as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, until one night he broke his silence. "I'm going to run away with her," he announced. Elia did not need to ask who. "She is to be married soon."

"Where?" Elia asked out of courtesy.

"To Dorne," Elia blinked at the mention of her home, "There is a tower there."

"Has she agreed?"

"No, she does not know," Rhaegar replied. "I do not plan to tell her."

"Have you told her of the prophecy?"

"No."

A silence settled between them. Elia could not find it in her to cry, much less speak.

"I will be leaving in a few moons time," he told her, as if it were a warning, "It must be done."

Elia nodded, unable to look up and meet his gaze. His mind was decided on this long before he spoke to her, that much was sure.

"Gods willing, I will return to you, Elia," he promised so sweetly, his words gilded and fine. "And you shall have a sister."

_He will bring her back,_ she thought bitterly. She felt her throat tighten at this. _But he will be back too._ Elia did not protest. It was duty that sealed her lips and closed her heart.

"Thank you, Elia." He spoke as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. When she looked up, she saw him smile sadly. "I'm sorry." He kissed her then, his lips warm and inviting, but did not linger. When he pulled away, Elia felt the heat of the kiss tingle on her lips, and she nodded dumbly.

It was duty that allowed her to forgive him. He was her husband. That much would not change. Not even the gods themselves could deny that. The northern girl would be laying with a married man; the dishonor was not Elia's, but her's and Rhaegar's. Elia suddenly found herself pitying the girl; looking into Rhaegar's marvelous purple eyes now, the girl never stood a chance. She could hate the she-wolf, drag her name in the dirt and curse her, but it was the dragon who was at fault.

He would capture her heart as he did Elia's, and when he returned home with her, sympathy, not duty, would call on her to welcome her as a sister.

For now, however, duty demanded that she please her husband; and so she granted him the girl without strife. _Duty belongs to my children now,_ Elia decided. _When he returns, he will receive it once more._ Then, and only then, will she allow herself to silently suffer again.


	16. Ned, Brandon, Robert, Ashara // Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three men and one woman reflect on the people they love(d).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as "the chapter that bridges the gap between the Tourney and the Rebellion". Enjoy!

**Ned**

Brandon was terribly drunk when he told Ned about Ashara.

"What else was there to do?" Brandon said lazily, his head falling on Ned's shoulder. Ned was helping him to his room, and he had begun to regret it. "She was beautiful, just beautiful," he sighed, and the words pierced Ned's heart. She _was_ beautiful; Ned knew that much. "And good at what she does. Aye, she was the best I've had so far," he quipped, before Ned shrugged him off into his bed. He stared down at his inebriated older brother and suddenly had the urge to strike him, and hard. Ned had been thinking of the lovely Dornish maid since Harrenhal 8 moons ago. He sent her letters that never received replies, but he sent them anyways. The image of her dancing in the hall, her silks twirling around her, was ever present in his mind. That long dark hair, those large violet eyes, skin that look so smooth... and how she felt in his arms, so small and warm, flashing him a sweet smile that struck his speechless throughout the entirety of the dance. He remembered think of how he would fight for her honor, vouch for it, if it were ever slighted, and yet it appeared that is was none other than his own brother that dishonored her.

Brandon's eyes were now rolling into the back of his head, and noisy snore followed soon after. Ned was still glaring down at him when he realized his fists were clenched. Relaxing his fingers, he left Brandon's room without another sound.

_He knew,_ Ned seethed internally, uncharacteristically enraged, _He knew I was fond of her._ But he did it anyways. Brandon Stark, heir of Winterfell, betrothed to the maid Catelyn Tully, was meant to be a man of utmost honor, and yet it appeared it was not so.

Ned found himself outside of his sister's door, having reached there in his blind daze. Without giving it another thought, he entered, and was surprised to find Lyanna awake. She was at her writing desk, a single lantern lighting the room, with her knees pulled up to her chin as she read a piece of paper in her hands. When she caught sight of him, she gasped and threw the paper onto her desk before scrambling to her feet. "Ned! What are you-"

"He laid with her," Ned muttered numbly, his concentration still elsewhere. His sister blinked, confused.

"Who?" She asked quizzically.

"Brandon," the name felt bitter on his lips, "With Ashara," her name, however, was as sweet as it had always been.

"Oh, Ned," Lyanna lamented, taking his hands into hers. He had confessed to her one night of his affections for Ashara, and she had replied the same way she did now.

"I suppose I never stood a chance," Ned remarked, dejected. He slumped his shoulders, the bout of anger slipping from his bones.

"No, Ned, do not say such things." She shook her head vigorously, squeezing his hands as she did so. "You are the better man for her. The best. She's a fool for turning elsewhere-"

"She is no fool," he snapped, jumping to her defense, "Brandon is Brandon. He is more handsome, more charming, he smiles more... She did what any girl would do." His sister frowned at that.

"No, she did not do what any girl would do. It was a concious choice she made, just as she chooses not to reply to your letters." Ned did not recall telling her that. His sister was sharp. "The girl is a fool for falling for a man who cares not for her, and she is cruel for not sending you a single letter making her disinterest clear. She is playing a game with you Ned, you must forget about her." She placed a gentle hand on his cheek, and her grey eyes searched his for a response. "You deserve better, dearest Ned."

_You do too,_ a voice in his head replied, but he could not bring himself to say it out loud. His own sorrow quickly washed the thought away. His sister took note of his vacant expression and threw her arms around his neck. Ned was slow to react, as he hesitated before returning her embrace.

"You will find a good woman, Ned. The best." The words sounded strange on her lips, as she spoke with the tone of a woman with experience beyond her years. Perhaps she knew more than he thought. In only four moons time she would be married, her small hands bound to the large hands belonging to his greatest friend. The thought saddened him even further. No longer would he wake and hear her conversing with simple-minded Hodor in the stables below as he readied her horse. Her bright voice will be missing at the table, the feminine tones painfully absent. As he held her now, he realized that it would be one of the last times.

"Thank you, Lya," he murmured into her curly dark tresses. As he left her embrace and her room, he reflected upon Ashara once more, praying it would be the last. The purple orbs of her eyes seemed to have bore holes in his mind, as it was all he could think of. When he returned to his room, he went straight to his desk and pulled a fresh piece of paper, and without thinking, wrote:

_Lady Ashara,_

He stared down at the words, struck dumb by the letters in her name. It was as if she were dancing on the paper now, enchanting him with her sparkling eyes and swaying hips. In the back of his mind, he heard her giggle, as lovely as a thousand little bells rung in unison.

_This will be the last letter you will receive from me..._

It was time to move on.

**Brandon**

He couldn't recall what he had told Ned, but whatever it was, it had drove him to avoid his presence entirely. Brandon would enter a room, and Ned would leave it. He was a bit disgruntled by that, but Brandon found his day occupied with other matters anyways.

His father had been pushing him to become more involved in Winterfell's affairs, from paying the servants to writing allies. Since his return from the tourney Brandon had met with more sworn houses than he had bothered to count. He had to listen to their complaints, deal with their unruly smallfolk, and listen to their gushing compliments. Brandon did not mind the latter much, but if he performed poorly in the other parts, his father lectured his ear clean off.

Still, those lectures paled in comparison to the one him and his siblings received after returning from the Tourney. He spoke of pride then; he reprimanded Brandon for his participation in the joust, insisting that it was better not to compete at all than to go against the crown prince. It was a slight on the house's sense of duty, he said, whatever that meant. Brandon was miffed at that; his hatred for Rhaegar had faded and in truth he had expected Lyanna to receive the brunt of his father's anger then. If anything, she had done the most dishonors to the house with that crown that wasn't rightfully hers. Instead, his father only shook his head at her and proclaimed that it was not her fault. Had Brandon been a cruel brother, he might have mentioned her participation in the joust as the mystery knight who angered the king. But it was a secret she made him swear he would keep.

Today comprised of one his least favorite tasks: granting audience to the smallfolk. Brandon was sitting in the uncomfortable stone throne and he felt his ass slowly growing numb. Some farmer was complaining about his horse being killed one way or another way by Stark man and was asking compensation. It would be less grueling if it weren't for the fact that the shriveled old man was reciting the story of the stallion's life and repeating details already said. During all this, Brandon allowed his mind to wander.

His wedding was on the horizon, as it was planned to be held right after his sister's. They were to ride out to Storm's End for Lyanna's wedding (an event he was looking forward to no more than his own), then leave from there to Riverrun for his wedding. There was a quarrel over who would ride out from Winterfell; his lord father had to come to give Lyanna away, Ned wanted to attend his friend's wedding, and Benjen wanted desperately to spend more time with his sister before they left. There was even discussion that Brandon would stay in Winterfell and postpone his wedding until Ned came back, but Brandon vehemently protested. He wasn't going to allow the slimy Baratheon to hold a bedding without Brandon being there to protect his sister; he didn't trust the sort of men Robert surrounded himself with, and Brandon's knuckles were itching to break a nose or two. It was decided in the end that Benjen would stay behind, much to his chagrin.

The idea of marriage became less frightening over time, though he was no more enthusiastic. Brandon had almost come to accept it as a bitter part of life, just a dull duty that every highborn man was expected to fulfill. He had little to complain about in the end; he would marry his pretty little wife, who would warm his bed with her shapely body, and she couldn't make him happy, there would always be other women who can. Still, a part of him fought against notion. At times the idea of it felt like wrought-iron chains being thrown across his back throwing him to the ground as he struggled against it. Brandon often caught himself thinking of being a freerider or a mercenary over in the Free Cities. There he would roam from town to town with nothing but a sword and whatever bit of gold he earned in a pouch on his hip. He would get his fill of wine, women, and food until his pouch held nothing but air, and he would go out and fight again. There he would he bound to no master, no king or queen or wife; his only restraints would be that of money, which he would happily earn by his sword.

_Perhaps I can find myself a favorite woman,_ Brandon pondered with a satisfied smile, _A woman who can ride me harder than any other. A woman like Ashara._ Brandon rarely thought of the violet-eyed maid, but when he did, he thought of her fondly. He could still smell the scent of flowers and warm sex that clung to her like perfume, her soft skin under his hands, her dark hair sticking to her face and lips. Sensual Ashara, unlike any he's ever had. To find a copy of her in the Free Cities would be a treat indeed.

Alas, duty and his love for his family would keep him here in Westeros, where he would live out an average little life with his proper redheaded wife. But Brandon did not intend to be settled down so easy. Perhaps he could have some fun struggling against those chains that bit at his skin. The wolf in him growled in anticipation.

**Robert**

Robert hadn't meant to lose his temper at Lyanna when he did, but he regretted it quickly after. He rode out with the Starks the next morning, insisting he would go part of the journey home with them (though Brandon was not in favor). Truthfully, he didn't want to spend more time on the road than he had to; he had simply been fishing for an opportunity to apologize to Lyanna. The closest he had gotten was blustering into her tent one night, where a handmaiden of hers was washing her feet. When he asked to speak to her alone, she refused to send her handmaiden out, insisting that whatever he had to say could be said in front of her. Robert's apology dissolved in his mouth then, and he bowed his head and bid her good night before ducking out.

He had made his final effort when he bid them all goodbye. He gave Brandon a hard stare, Ned a warm hug, and Benjen a playful punch in the shoulder. When he got around to Lyanna, she granted him a stare so cold, goose pimples rose on his skin. He simply took her hand and pressed his lips her fingers before wishing her well. A part of him uselessly hoped that she would throw her arms around him and kiss his face, while assuring that she would miss him so.

Since then, Lyanna had had her 17th nameday, and Robert mustered up the courage to write her a letter wishing her many more years of health. It was the only letter he sent out among the hundreds that littered his floor. Just as he struggled speaking to her face-to-face, he had trouble writing to he as well, an issue that plagued him before the tourney as well.

Another thing that hadn't changed was his hatred of Rhaegar Targaryen. Robert found himself cursing the prince on all matters of things. He damned the prince for the incompetent squires at Storm's End, for the cold breeze that came through his window, for Renly's incessant crying, even. He scowled at every mention of him, and mocked him in front of his friends. It might have been treason, slandering the prince so, but Robert did not care- he found it easier to blame him than to find a reasonable solution.

Still, there was one thing that brought him much joy. His wedding was just a mere four moons away, and in only three his betrothed and her family were going to saddle their horses and begin their trip. He could almost see it now: Lord Rickard at the front, large and commanding, with his smirking son Brandon at his side. Ned would ride alongside Lyanna, he figured, as attached to his sister as he is. Then there would be Lyanna, the woman who would soon share his last name among many other things, straight and proud upon her mare, straddling it as she was wont to do. Behind them would be their men, perhaps even other lords and ladies as well come to attend, and Lyanna's chests of clothes and her belongings on a cart not far behind. They would belong here now.

Robert had thus far kept his promise to bed no woman, as difficult as it was. In his frustration, the serving-maids who were once plain seemed desirable, and temptation seemed to pull on his flesh at every corner. The days before their wedding ceremony would be the hardest, he figured. To know that she is there, in his castle, yet not touching her, not feeling her under hands... Thinking about it drove him half-mad with lust. One omnipresent distraction, however, was his steward, who prodded him daily on the matter of the wedding. We'll be ordering _this_ many barrels of wine, we've invited _that_ many guests, your wedding clothes need fitting... It was all details that bored him to tears. He much preferred keeping his mind on the main event, the big picture. Many a time he imagined the wedding, how wine will flow like water, and how the music will be loud and mirthful. He'd laugh and jape with his friends, get drunk (but not too drunk), and hold Lyanna's hand the entire night. While Robert knew that it was unlikely that she'd play the role of the blushing bride oh so pure and clean, in his thoughts he liked to imagine that she would. In reality, her petulant mouth would likely be laughing louder than any woman's.

Naturally, it was the bedding he looked forward to the most; Lyanna being carried off by his greatest friends (minus Ned, of course) to be undressed and bared to him once for all. That tantalizing robe in his dreams would be no more; she would enter his chambers nude and ripe for the taking. Perhaps she wouldn't even be shaken by the undressing, as fierce as she was; she would likely bruise some balls if anyone tried something with her. Perhaps she would come to him, eager and open, just as anxious as he was to get inside her.

It was only a matter of time now, and of trying patience. Robert needed only to wait, to stave off desire, for just a bit longer. Soon, she would be his, all his, belonging to him as she was meant to be. It was how the gods willed it: for her to be by his side. There could be no other reason as to why they striked him with a love so strong that he felt it in his bones, tasted it in his mouth, dreamt of her. There could be no other but Lyanna. Lyanna with her loud laugh and strong rider's legs. Lyanna with her sweet red lips and eyes as grey as the sea that crashed against the bluffs of Storm's End. Lyanna, slender yet shapely, bold and strong.

Only four more moons, and she would spend the rest of their lives in his arms.

 

**Ashara**

**  
**She placed a hand over the swell of her belly and whispered to the child within her as she often did, so alone in this tower. "You will be as strong as your father, and as handsome. But you will be sweet, sweeter than him. You will be kind, and gentle, and you'll write to your lady love..." A tear rolled down Ashara's cheek and onto her stomach. She was near bursting with child now, the child she had made with Brandon Stark in a single night. She had tried so hard to hide it, but when her belly became too big and firm to accredit to growing fat, she was smuggled away from King's Landing to Starfall to hide her away and conceal her shame.

Ashara cried bitterly when she told Elia of this; the princess was like a sister to her, having felt kinship due to their shared Dornish blood. It was Elia she confessed to first that she feared she was with child, and the gentle woman held her head in her lap as she cried. She smoothed her hair and rubbed her back and swore she would tell no one. Ashara had felt guilty then. The poor princess was struggling with many things herself, among them her own health and her husband. Still, she allowed her to rest and stay in bed on the days she felt she couldn't handle working.

It was Arthur who discovered her. Ashara had done well to hide her growing stomach from him, though she always sensed her brother's wariness toward her excuses. She had convinced herself then that it was his job to be wary and suspicious, that those traits are what made him such a formidable member of the Kingsguard. One morning, Ashara was struck with a bout of nausea so mighty that she did not hear anyone walk into her chambers. It was not until Arthur was in the bathroom, gawking at her leaning over the chamber pot, that he did the math and figured her out.

He had not yelled at her as she feared he would. His mouth formed a hard straight line and he asked her only one question: "Who is the father, Ashara?". She feared he would hurt Brandon if she told him, and so she stayed silent. As fearsome as her brother was, he was not a cruel man. He did not pull her to her feet and shake her, nor did he strike her or curse her. He asked again, "Who is the father?", and she confessed, but not before making him swear that he would do no harm to him. "He did nothing wrong, Arthur, it was me who asked him, me, please Arthur, please..." While Arthur had promised her Brandon's safety, he promised nothing else. The same day he wrote a letter to Starfall and announced that she would be coming to stay there.

And so here she was. She had few visitors aside from her handmaidens, and found herself lonely often. She supposed quite a few people knew of her condition by now, and that she was supposed to be ashamed of it. It was a dishonor, was it not? To carry a man's child? Ashara failed to see the shame in it. For one night, she was completely and wonderfully happy. She could still recall the feeling of his strong chest under her head, his calloused hands stroking her back. That night she asked him to run away with her, to leave his betrothed and his family behind and to come with her. He refused, and though he didn't say it, he loved his family more than he could ever love her. Ashara had even proposed that she marry his younger brother, the plain one who fancied her, so that she may never be too far from Brandon. He grew upset at that, asserting that marrying his brother would mean loving him and him alone, that she ought not to think of slighting his honor.

The night, and their romance, was over quicker than she would have liked. It was to be the last time she'd speak to him.

Now all she had was a head swimming with tears and the only token of that night rested within her belly. Ashara comforted herself with false hope that perhaps he wrote her letters, letter that were sent to King's Landing instead of Starfall. Perhaps there were scores of letters unread from him, and it was this damnable place that kept him from her.

Perhaps she would never know. _Perhaps it_ _is better this way,_ Ashara pondered sadly. She rubbed her stomach again and wished that her child would find true delight in another person. She prayed he would never feel ashamed for loving someone more than he ought to.


	17. Lyanna // Cloaked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna chooses love over duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant: "Your naked body should only belong to those who fall in love with your naked soul."

The first letter came to her the same day she arrived back home in Winterfell.

That day she had gone to her room and thrown herself on her bed, breathing in the familiar scent of her sheets, missing it terribly. When she sighed with delight, a bird's warble answered. When she had turned her head toward the direction of the sound, she was surprised by what she saw. It was a little dove, with feathers as white as fresh-fallen snow, standing on her windowsill, holding a rolled piece of paper on its thin ankle.

Lyanna had let it in, and took the paper from the clasp on its leg. Its seal bore no sigil, but it did not need to. Before she even reached the closing she knew it was Rhaegar. The little bird had cooed while she scrambled to write him back, and she sealed her letter with unmarked wax as he did before clasping it to the dove and sending it on its way.

It was the first of many letters, Lyanna would soon discover, and the length of them would increase. Every week or so the dove would return to her window and peck at the glass to be let in, no matter the hour. Lyanna had begun to keep a bag of seeds in her writing desk for the pretty bird to eat at as she wrote. It was such a lovely little thing, with its soft stark feathers and gleaming black eyes. Lyanna had grown to love it almost as much as she loved what it brought.

The correspondence was unlike any Lyanna had ever had with another person. Rhaegar was open with her, told her of his troubles and his mirths, his pains and pleasures, and Lyanna slowly began to do the same. In time, she found she could confess anything to him, every fear that troubled her mind. She asked him questions, and in his seemingly infinite knowledge, he answered them all. Nothing seemed too mundane or unimportant to him, she realized, as he carefully considered all her stories, from her little practices with Benjen to the explosive quarrels she had with Brandon. He was thoughtful and wise,and Lyanna was captivated by him.

The times when he wrote of his wife and children, Lyanna would feel a strange pang in her chest. The reminder that he was a married man brought a queer pain upon her, and it saddened her greatly. Each time Lyanna thought that he may have a feeling for her beyond a friendly connection, the voice in the back of her head reprimanded her for her foolishness. Regardless, she could not deny that she felt something fierce for him, for when he wrote her he was not Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Dragon Prince, but only Rhaegar. Rhaegar, who listened to her woes and shared her mirths. Rhaegar, whose heart had been opened to her and to whom she had opened her own.

Now Lyanna had a feeling it would come to an end. She sat in her chambers now, stripped bare of everything but the bed and its sheets. All her things had been packed in chests and sacks and sat in the corner of her bedroom. She had two more nights of Winterfell left, before Lyanna and her family would mount their horses and make their way to Storm's End, where her fate would be sealed for life. Benjen had cried sorrowfully into her shoulder when he learned that he must stay in Winterfell and lose all the time he could have had with her on the road. "Lya, I'll miss you, I'll miss you so much," he had sobbed, devastation dripping off of his every word. Lyanna bit back her own tears as she held his head and promised that he could come visit, as often as he liked. He only shook his head and said, "It wouldn't be the same." And he was right.

Though she held her sobs then, she found she could not do it now. She buried her face in her pillow to muffle her wails, knowing that it may be the last time she could cry alone in her own bedroom, in her own bed that she shared with no one. She let the tears flow freely now, as she had to be brave for later.

Perhaps the only thing she could find joy in was the road there. Howland Reed had promised to meet with them in the Neck, and ride with them to Storm's End. Between the kind crannogman and the company of Brandon, Ned, and her father, she was sure to find many moments of mirth. It was only for a few weeks, to be sure, but she would take all that she could.

Lyanna's crying had dwindled down to sniffles now, and she turned her head let her cheek rest on the wet pillow. Through bleary eyes, she caught a glimmer of white in her window, and a familiar warble and tapping. With a gasp, Lyanna got to her feet and opened the window to let the bird in. It was Rhaegar's dove, and around its leg was a letter from him. As she opened the clasp to remove the letter, Lyanna noticed that it was only a single piece of paper. Lyanna had a sad thought, _Perhaps its a poem. A goodbye poem._ He wrote her many poems ( _They are songs,_ he wrote her once, _But because I cannot sing them to you, they are poems._ ), and Lyanna imagined that it might be one of them. She broke the seal with shaky hands.

_Dearest Lyanna,_

_Go to your heart tree the night before you leave. I must see you._

_\- Rhaegar_

Lyanna read it again, unsure as to whether her mind was playing tricks on her or not. _See me?_ Lyanna wondered, incredulous, _Here?_ Her heart fluttered at the prospect, but she did not fail to notice the symmetry. To see Rhaegar in a woods again, as she had twice before... Goose pimples appeared on her arms in a nervous excitement.

Lyanna quickly gathered her wits about her, and carried out the motions she always did when she received a letter from Rhaegar. She got on her hands and knees under the desk and pulled at a loose floorboard, removing the slat of wood entirely. She slipped it there among the countless others, a hovel of personal treasures. After replacing the floorboard, she crawled out from under the desk and pulled herself onto her chair. From a drawer she pulled a handful of seeds for the dove. When her gaze flitted to her desk, where the little white bird usually stood in anticipation of a meal, she found it was not there. Her eyes roamed around the room briefly in search of it, but found it was truly gone. She slipped the seeds back into the drawer, and went to her open window, bracing herself on the sill as she leaned out.

The brisk air nipped at her face, and Lyanna took a moment to breathe it in. The air won't be nearly this lovely in the south. _Nothing would,_ Lyanna noted sadly. Her gaze settled on the woods below, a thicket of black in the night. The heart tree was not far off from here, Lyanna knew this for sure. It was a quick walk and an even quicker ride. While it could not be seen from her angle, Lyanna imagined Rhaegar already there beneath it's ruby-red leaves, his handsome face starkly juxtaposed with the weathered one that belong to the weirwood.

She stepped away from the window and closed it shut. As she settled into bed, Lyanna found it hard to sleep. Anticipation of his arrival had already begun to take effect on her, leaving her in a breathless reverie. _He will be in Winterfell,_ she told herself still struck by disbelief, _Rhaegar will be here._

Sleep came upon her late, kept at bay through thoughts of the prince, yet it was the sweetest slumber she'd had.

\---

It was her final full day at Winterfell and Lyanna made it her goal to cherish it. She sparred with Benjen with their trusty sticks for the last time. She rode with Ned out to the open field she knew so well, slept so many times in. She japed with Brandon, laughing at even his cruel quips. She sat at her father's side as he shook the hands of smallfolk and lords alike. Most importantly, however, she walked the halls of the Great Keep, breathing in its scent in a childish attempt to keep its musty aroma forever in her nose. She pressed her cheek to the warm walls, tasted the cook's sauce out of a ladle in the kitchen, and giggled with the handmaidens that had tended to her for so many years. She even found her locket that held a portrait of her mother, which she kissed and thanked for always watching over her. It was a silver charm, filigreed with a direwolf on the front, ornate, but subtley so. She put it around her neck and slipped it under her bodice, where the cool metal pressed to her bosom.

When night fell and supper was called, Lyanna ate and laughed among her brothers and her father, knowing very well that it would be the last time she would do so as an unmarried woman. The next time she would sup with them, all together as they were now, may be many years from now. Perhaps Brandon will have children by then. _Perhaps I might._ Lyanna waved away the thought.

She retired to her chambers with a full belly as a new wave of excitement washed over her. She would see Rhaegar again, so suddenly and without explanation, but she would see him. She scrambled to one of the many chests in the corner of her room and rummaged through her clothes for a cloak. She decided on one as green as the godswood, one that was long and thick and made out of the softest velvet. Draping it around her shoulders, she deftly tied the string around her neck as she made her way to the mirror at her vanity.

She examined herself closely; her hair was loose, dark curls splayed over her shoulders, contrasting greatly with the plain white dress she wore. She smoothed out a fold on her skirt and pinched her cheeks to bring a flush of color to them. Twirling once, she smiled at her own vanity. Though she would not admit it out aloud, she wanted to impress Rhaegar. He had come all this way to see her, had he not?

As sudden as a storm, Lyanna turned very serious. She pressed her ear to her door, listening for conversation in the hall. Lyanna was no stranger to sneaking out of her room unnoticed; she had done it more than once to embark on midnight rides, where the only sounds that filled the air were that of her horse's galloping hooves, crickets, and her own breathing. Now, however, Lyanna did not aim to ride her horse. As soon as she made it into the godswood, she would be covered by the dark of the night and protected by the old gods.

Hearing no noise, Lyanna pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, and stepped out of her room on nimble feet. She closed the door behind her in all carefulness before tiptoeing down the hall. Lyanna knew the Great Keep well, along with its secret passages and exits, and she utilized that information, walking only through the darkest halls where few servants could ever be found. When she stepped outside and onto earth, Lyanna pulled the cloak around her shoulders and hurried into the godswood not ten feet away. She weaved her way around the trees, needing no light to find her way. These were trees that she knew well. She had climbed them numerous times to break off many a branch to serve as her swords. The godswood was as comforting as her father's embrace, as much a part of her life as any of her brothers were. She would miss it terribly.

While Lyanna could have found the heart tree without a lantern, it was just that that had signaled that she was near. The soft yellowbglow of a flame emanted from the heart tree, and Lyanna made her way to it as eager as a moth would be. Upon arriving at the grand weirwood, her breath hitched in her throat.

Rhaegar was beautiful. The moonlight played off the silver of his hair and danced in the purple pools of his eyes. He wore no armor, just simple clothes meant for long rides, but on his shoulders was a cloak of red and black. While Lyanna had expected him, she was not expecting his entourage. He was surrounded by three men of the Kingsguard, men Lyanna recognized as Sers Arthur, Gerold, and Oswell. They were clad in their scaled armor that was as white as snow, polished to a stunning sheen. They seemed to glow, these three large men; with Rhaegar at the forefront, he bathed in all the light that surrounded him.

Lyanna was struck speechless, but it was Rhaegar who spoke first.

"Lyanna," he breathed, her name rolling off his tongue with ease. "I'm overjoyed that you've come." Lyanna could only muster a weak nod, still dazzled. "A part of me feared you wouldn't."

"You were all I could think of," Lyanna blurted out breathlessly. "I feared that the letter you sent me would be that last I would hear from you." It was these heartfelt confessions Lyanna shared with him many times on paper, yet it was so different saying it aloud. The pang in her chest returned.

"I feared that as well," he admitted with a sad smile. Looking into his eyes now, Lyanna noticed that pain that seared behind them. He looked so sad, so hurt. Lyanna wanted to mend him. "And it is what brought me here today." He stepped forward, closing the gap between them and taking her hands into his own. They enveloped hers completely, his callouses rubbing against her smaller ones. A shiver ran down her spine at his touch. "Lyanna, I ask that you come away with me." The words struck her dumb and mute again.

 _Come away with him?_ she thought in disbelief. _Come away with him..._ Her mind seemed to command it now, and every fibre of her being agreed with it.

"I love you, Lyanna Stark," he murmured so sweetly, so genuinely, that it was near enough to make Lyanna swoon if she were the type. "I cannot bear the knowledge that you will marry another. Come away with me if you share my feelings. We will go to Dorne. We will be so happy, sweet Lyanna."

 _Of course I do,_ she wanted to say aloud, but words failed her and she settled for a nod instead. He smiled down at her then, his eyes brighter. He placed a hand under her chin to tilt her head up, and Lyanna knew what was to come. Their lips locked, and his kiss tasted better than Robert's ever did. It was but a brief kiss, but it filled her with a sudden energy.

"I do not want him," Lyanna admitted, clutching his shirt in her hands. "I want you, and only you. Rhaegar, you are all I think of, all I've ever wanted," the words seemed to flow freely now, his lips having sparked something within her, "If this is love that I'm feeling, then it is all I want. Take me away." Love; what a strange sensation. It had gripped her heart when she first laid eyes upon him, and it had held on ever since, made stronger through his letters. It had pained her when he was so far away, but now that he was close it brought upon her a feeling of happiness so strong, she wished to never let go.

"Then there is only one more thing I must ask of you." He held her hands again, and his face suddenly fell serious. "Marry me, Lyanna."

Lyanna did not inquire into the details of this request, nor did she consider that he was already married. In her mind he had just opened the door to her cage and asked that she come out.

"Yes," Lyanna said breathlessly. She broke out into a large smile and an uncharacteristically feminine giggle left her lips. She used to scoff at girls who dreamt of marrying princes, yet here she was now, holding the hands of the finest prince in the land.

Rhaegar gave a little smile at her excitement. He nodded to Ser Arthur, who nodded back. Lyanna had nearly forgotten the knights were there, too wrapped up in Rhaegar's presence. He led her to the heart tree, and Lyanna realized they were to would do the ceremony now. Ser Arthur stood behind them and began to recite the words that a high septon was meant to recite. He spoke briefly of vows and matrimony and the gods, all while Lyanna was swimming in Rhaegar's eyes. Then came their turn,

"Father, smith, warrior, mother, maiden, crone, stranger," they said in unison. It felt strange to speak them now, vows that she had recited for many days now, vows that were meant for another. They were vows of the Seven, of Robert's gods and Rhaegar's, spoken in front of the tree of Lyanna's gods. Even in Storm's End it was meant to be this way; Robert had installed a heart tree just for her, so their vows may be said before the old gods. But this was better.

"I am hers and she is mine, from this day to my last day," Rhaegar finished, in his beautiful voice that made his words sound like music.

"You may now cloak your bride and bring her under your protection," Ser Arthur concluded, and Rhaegar did so, removing the cloak off his shoulders. Lyanna turned around. This part, she was not prepared for. In Storm's End, she were to have a ribbon binding her hands to Robert's.

"Lyanna, your cloak," Rhaegar said behind her. Her hands flew to her neck, where the strings of her velvet cloak were tied. With a nervous giggle, she pulled at the strings until it slipped to the ground. It was then that Rhaegar placed his own cloak around her shoulders and tied it. When Lyanna turned back around, she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him, giddy with excitement.

At the end of the kiss, Rhaegar turned back to his men. "Go on ahead," he commanded, reverting to the iron tones meant for ruling, "We shall meet you all before dawn breaks." The men nodded and slipped into the darkness of the forest, where Lyanna heard the whinny of horses and the beginning of a gallop. She hadn't even known there were horses; in her awe, she had imagined they all simply appeared in her godswood, as high sorcerors were said to do.

 _The witnesses to my wedding were knights of the Kingsguard and horses,_ Lyanna said inwardly, amused. So much different from the hundred guests that were meant to look upon her in Storm's End. As the silly thought passed, Lyanna became curious as to the reasons for Rhaegar's command. He looked upon her so tenderly now, and his hands let go of hers to instead find purchase on her waist. They were warm through her silks- warm and large and forever hers to hold. Lyanna's eyes briefly flitted to them before looking back into his face.

"In Dorne we will be allowed the comfort of a bed," Rhaegar murmured. Lyanna suddenly understood what he meant to do. "But you have confessed to me the comfort that your godswood brought you, and I thought..." he trailed off, but he need not say any more. The godswood did put her at ease in a way that not even her own bedroom could do, but it was the heart tree in particular that offered her a sanctuary safer than her father's embrace. The tree's long branches had always seemed to wrap around her like crimson arms.

There was no better place.

Lyanna pressed her lips to his as wordless consent. The hands on her waist rubbed her sides affectionately as Lyanna put her arms around his neck. In between kisses, Rhaegar spoke, "Your cloak... lay it on... the ground..." They pulled apart briefly for Lyanna to fumble at the tie around her neck. Rhaegar reached for it and held it out in front of him, and it was then that Lyanna realized the full extent of its beauty. It was of a thick black cloth, brocaded with flames of bright crimson that surrounded a three headed dragon in the center. Its eyes were threaded with polished black obsidian, stones that caught the moonlight and gleamed brilliantly.

"No," Lyanna blurted out, taking it from his hands. She held it to her chest as her eyes went to the ground below, where her forest green cloak laid in a pool at their feet. "That one." He did not argue, instead leaning down and picking it up before laying flat on the ground. As he did so, Lyanna went to one of the two horses, a chestnut mare much like her own, behind the heart tree and threw Rhaegar's cloak across its saddle. When she returned, Rhaegar smiled softly and shook his head, as if amused by her. She hurried back into his beckoning arms. "Where were we?" She asked huskily. His eyes flashed before pressing his lips to hers again.

This time, instead of rubbing her sides, his hands flew to the back of her dress, where he began to deftly pull apart the laces. As he did so, Lyanna felt a heat begin to simmer in her lower belly, paired with an anxiousness that urged her shaky hands to brace herself on his shoulders. An old, persistent fear bubbled up to the surface, and she tried to concentrate on simpler things; his lips on hers, warm and moving slowly against hers. The feeling of his corded shoulders through his blouse. His fingers dancing down her arms as he pushed off the sleeves of her dress. The fleeting feeling of it falling off her form and onto the ground below.

They broke apart for an instant so that he may drink her in. His eyes roamed over her naked body, now bared to him as her soul was in their letters. A flush of self-conciousness warmed her cheeks as his tender gaze returned to her face. "You are beautiful, Lyanna," he said almost off-handedly, as if it wasn't important, as if it were only a small part of why he came so far to see her.

Emboldened by his compliment, Lyanna's nervous hands went to the edge of his blouse, which she pulled over his head with his help. This time it was Lyanna's turn to stare. He was well-defined, as if the details of his torso were sculpted out of stone. Skin was stretched taut over sinewy muscle, with corded arms and a muscled stomach. Yet, Lyanna noticed he was not overwhelmingly large; he was lithe, in fact, not padded with muscle as some other men were- one in particular came to mind. But when he placed a hand on the small of her back to pull her towards him, the thought of the other man evaporated in an instant. Instead, Lyanna became intently aware of her breasts pressed to his chest, and was taken aback by the feeling of bare skin-on-skin, unaware that such pleasure could derive from it.

A hand threaded through her long locks, their eyes locked in wordless conversation. His nimble fingers danced down her side, playing her skin as if she were his harp, and she responded with breathy notes. A tingling trail was left behind as he brushed the underside of a breast, dragged across her stomach and slipped between her legs. Taking her lower lip between his own, he swallowed Lyanna's gasp. His tongue swiped across her front teeth as a finger teased lips farther down below. Acting on reflex, Lyanna grabbed a fistful of his silver-white hair. She felt his finger drag across her folds to find purchase at the apex, where he began to rub, slowly at first. She moaned into his mouth until his lips left hers to instead plant little kisses on her jaw, chin, and down the thin column of her neck. His fingers continued to move and work in ways that brought her dizzying gratification, manifested through the slickness she felt on her thighs and the whines that escaped her lips.

Her handmaidens had told her of the pain, but not of the pleasure. Now it was all she felt; every inch of skin he had touched, burned. Her hardened nipples grazed over his chest whenever she arched into him, and her head felt heavy with desire.

When Lyanna thought she could take no more, he eased her down onto the velvet cloak prepared for them below. He took his hands off her, instead placing them on the ground at either side of her hips, bracing himself as he lowered his head and kissed up her stomach. Lyanna threaded her fingers through his hair, bucking her hips when he kissed the ticklish underside of her breasts, and groaning his name loudly when he kissed each of her nipples. When his head was leveled with her own, he regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes that Lyanna nearly drowned in. He wrested her hand from his hair and brushed his lips over each of the fingertips. He guided it to the strings of his breeches below, and Lyanna nodded dumbly before hurridly pulling at the laces. When the length of him was revealed, she unwittingly grazed her fingers down it, and he shuddered at her touch. Lyanna moved to do it again, but he caught her wrist with a smile, and kissed her fingers again. She let her hand drop beside her, unsure of what to do with it.

He moved in closer, guiding her legs to wrap around his hips. Leaning on his forearms now, he was careful not to press his weight on her, and kissed her mouth again. Between her legs, she felt the tip of him begin to enter her, causing her to whimper in impatience. His first thrust was careful, not slow nor fast, but the acute pain she felt garnered a cry that was barely muffled by his lips. Her hands flew to his back then, uprooting fistfuls of grass as she did so, with her fingernails dragging across his back. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her mouth, "I'm sorry, my love." His hips rocked at a slow rhythm, until the sharp pain from before dwindling down into a dull ache that was not entirely unpleasant. Lyanna would cry out every so often in discomfort, which he eased with sweet kisses in the crook of her neck and gentle hands carressing her thighs.

It came to a finish when he let out a soft grunt, his seed spilling inside her. He pulled himself out of her, panting as she was, and his eyes immediately went to between her legs. There was blood staining her inner thighs as well as the cloak, evident through a dark spot on the green fabric. Her handmaidens had warned her of that. It did not seem to bother Rhaegar, however, as he took the edge of the cloak and wiped at the blood with a tenderness Lyanna had never known. A comfortable heat settled in her lower stomach as she felt his hands through the soft fabric moving with a methodic deftness. When he finished, he rolled onto his back beside her, heaving a satisfied sigh. Lyanna had a sudden need to be close to him, and she laid her head on his chest, her breasts pressing into his side. He draped an arm across her back and squeezed, kissing the top of her head as he did so.

"I fear I hurt you tonight," he murmured into her hair. Lyanna placed a cautious hand on his stomach, tracing the muscle there.

"I've had it worse," she said with a smile, and she heard a chuckle leave his lips.

"We cannot stay put for long," he said, suddenly sounding serious. Lyanna tilted her head up to look at his contemplative face. "Dorne is a long way."

In their passion, Lyanna had forgotten about what she had agreed to do. The faces of her brothers, Benjen, Ned, Brandon appeared in her mind, followed by her father. They knew only a fraction of her unhappiness at her marriage. They knew she wanted it not, but not the many tears she had cried, the many times panic pumped through her veins at the thought of it, the dread that had clouded her thoughts. But then, she had tried not to show it, for she knew her father had arranged it not to slight her. She knew Ned loved Robert, that Benjen adored him, and she could not confess her dissatisfaction without hurting them. Nor could she admit it to Brandon, who despised him so, for Brandon was an easy man full of japes, who would laugh at her sorrow before sympathizing with it. _They would want me to be happy,_ Lyanna told herself. Perhaps it was a slight on her duty or her honor, but Lyanna did not care for these things as her father did. 

Robert's face swam up to the front of her mind, handsome and mirthful and strong. Lyanna expected a pang of guilt to accompany it, but she felt none. He claimed to love her so, the man who kissed her before speaking to her, touched her before knowing her heart. _He does not love me,_ Lyanna thought bitterly. _If he loved me, he'd write me, speak to me, listen to me._ It was a childish thought, she knew that. Perhaps it was even childish to run away from her marriage, but Lyanna cared not. She would be with someone she loved, someone who cared for her deeply, and it felt more right than the loveless marriage she was strong-armed into.

Rhaegar began to stir underneath her, and Lyanna sat up, so that he may as well. "We should get going," he said softly, less a command and more of a suggestion. Lyanna nodded. As he got to his feet to find his clothes, Lyanna took one last look at the godswood around her. She was raised in this forest; she slept in its grasses, rested in the shade of its trees, felt its dirt between her toes and fingers. The heart tree was her mother when the one that birthed her died, as it listened to her and offered comfort as any mother would. Behind her was the reflection pool, filled with clear water that sparkled in any light. How many times had she washed her face in the pool, drank its waters, or, perhaps more suiting to its purpose, stared into it, viewing her soul in the rippling mirror?

"Goodbye," she whispered sadly. A hand flew to the locket around her neck, and she opened it to look upon her mother's face. Her mother would want her to be happy too, this she knew for sure. Lyanna plucked a couple of blades of grass and folded it into the locket before closing it shut again.

Getting to her feet now, Lyanna noticed that Rhaegar was already dressed and tightening the saddle on his silver horse. Across his shoulder was her white dress. Lyanna was comfortable in her nakedness as she walked to him, though he seemed to try his best not to notice. Still, Lyanna noticed how his gaze flitted from her face to her body and back to her face again, and she smiled coyly at that. He handed her the dress, which Lyanna pulled over her head with his help. She turned around and lifted her hair off her back, and he laced up her dress with swift hands. "Thank you," she said politely; he smiled in response. His gaze went from her face to something behind her, and his face turned serious again.

"Your cloak," he muttered for the third time that night, and Lyanna turned to see it lying under the heart tree.

"Oh." She went to pick up the garment, now bloodstained and far less beautiful, and folded it up. She tucked it away in the saddlebag on the chestnut mare, flashing Rhaegar an embarassed smile. "Can you imagine..." She trailed off, chuckling to herself. He went over to her side again, gently taking her face in his hands and kissing her lips, which were already swollen from his affections. Lyanna clutched his shirt in her hands, holding onto him as if he might run away from her. He brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, and she felt him smile against her lips. He pulled away from her reluctantly, though Lyanna wished he hadn't.

"Are you ready?" He asked, motioning to her horse.

"Of course."

And so the two lovers mounted their horses, and bounded away from Winterfell. Lyanna did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert fanfare here*


	18. Ned // The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search begins for Lyanna. A discovery rocks Ned to his core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine this fic as a river. We are approaching the bend. Prepare for a bumpy ride and a sharp turn. ;)

The search had begun early that morning.

It was Ned that discovered Lyanna missing, when he entered her room to wake her and found there was no one there. She had disappeared without a trace. A hundred explanations had been suggested and most were quickly refuted. Was she out for a ride? They asked the stableboys, who responded by saying that there were no horses missing, my lord. Did you see her after last night? They asked her handmaidens, who shook their heads as they wrung their hands. If she had ran, she can't have gone far, said the men who were first sent out to find her. Alas, they returned with nothing and no one.

Ned and Brandon had each mounted horses to lead search parties themselves; Ned with sweaty palms and a dizzying anxiety, and Brandon with a determined jut of jaw and a wild rage. Benjen was left behind to frantically search their secret hiding spots, all those nooks and crannies only they knew. Their father was the calmest of them all, taking it upon himself to be the voice of strength for his children. Instead of fretting as they did, he channeled his energies into commanding his men and interrogating everyone who might have had the faintest idea of where she might be. Still, even as he pulled himself to his full height and puffed out his broad chest, the frightened folks could offer no hints.

Ned returned after Brandon did, well after the sun had set and the cover of night hid all trails. They did not join the men assigned to continue the search through the night. Brandon had wanted to come along, insisting that he wasn't tired, that he could keep going, but their lord father called his sons to his office then. Once they had all gathered, the wise man looked over each of his heirs with grave looks and he spoke with the hard tones of a commander.

"I have written Lord Robert of her disappearance, that we will not ride out to him, and that the wedding must be postponed. However, you will ride out to Storm's End on the morrow, Eddard. Your friend will need you."

Ned nodded quickly. It only made sense that he would ride out to see Robert; his friend would be equal parts furious and worried, to be sure. A dangerous concoction for lovesick Robert.

"Brandon, you will continue your search tomorrow. I will assign 100 men to you; send them out in all directions. Leave no mile of the North unsearched."

Brandon's face darkened and his eyes flashed with anticipation. He gave his father a stiff nod. He was much calmer now than he had been when he had first learned that she was gone. He had shouted at Ned when alerted him, as if it were Ned who stole her off and hid her. "What do you mean she's _gone_?!" he had boomed, his jaw clenched and his eyes wild. He bellowed curses at Ned, at Lyanna, at no one in particular, until he became bored and diverted his rage elsewhere. No one was safe; from Lyanna's teary-eyed handmaidens to his father's hardened men, they all experienced the brunt of his anger. Admittedly, it was motivating in its own way.

"Your sister..." His father's voice was softer now. Ned noticed his gray eyes glossing over with emotion, the corner of his lips turning down in a somber frown. "Pray for her safe return. I do not know if she fled, or if is she was taken. Perhaps she'll return to us on her own, unharmed. Perhaps not." This garnered a whimper from Benjen, who was wide-eyed and trembling. Ned placed a hand on his thin shoulder and squeezed. "But we will do all we can to bring her back. Winter is coming, and she cannot survive it alone." He gave a curt nod, and bid them all good night. As they all walked out, Ned heard his father heave a heavy sigh.

Once out in the hall, the three brothers stood together in silence, each reflecting on the situation they had found themselves in. For Ned, it hadn't entirely sunk in that his sister was missing. He half-expected her to bound into the hall with her bright eyes and sweet smile and ask them all what they were doing. _Why?_  was the nagging question in his mind. Not how, or where, or who, but why. _Why would she run? Why would anyone want to take her?_ His sister was brave. She had been brave all her life, brave and bold and precocious. She was not the type to run away from her troubles, nor was she the type to turn nervous and flee. If she were to leave, it would be for good reason, for a better reason than avoiding a marriage.

"Someone took her," Brandon said bitterly, saying aloud what Ned had been speculating. "Plucked her right from her bed, he did. _They_ did. She wouldn't go without a fight, and it would take more than one man to shut her up and take her." He was wild-eyed and mad with rage again, his lip curled up into a distasteful sneer. His hand was gripping the hilt of the sword on his hip, his knuckles turning white with effort. Ned could only stare at him dumbly.

"Why would anyone want to take Lya?" Benjen asked nervously beside him, echoing Ned's thoughts.

"Why would any man steal a pretty girl?" Brandon seethed, his teeth bared. "I'll kill 'em. I'll kill the slimy bastards, I swear." He stormed out of the hall, spitting curses as he went. Ned stared after him numbly; he suddenly felt horribly helpless. Lyanna, his little sister, his only sister, was gone, and the gods only knew what was happening to her.

Ned heard Benjen sniffle beside him, and he turned to his younger brother with a blank stare. Benjen was fighting back tears now, trying to be as brave as a 14 year old with a missing sister who meant the world to him could possibly be. "She'll be alright, won't she Ned?" Benjen asked shakily, fishing for an affirmation. Ned could not reply- not without lying to him. "Lyanna, she's... she's strong," The littlest seemed to assure himself more than Ned. "She'll be fine." His features suddenly hardened; even the tears seemed to still in his eyes, now glossing over like ice on a pond in winter.

Benjen walked away with shoulders rolled back and head tilted up, a subtle strength filling his bones. Ned wished he felt the same. He had never felt so powerless in his life, so vulnerable and weak. He was Eddard Stark, second heir to Winterfell, a man grown. Nothing should happen that would leave him so debilitated and hapless. It was supposed to be a charmed life he was living, not this. In his fit of sorrow, he found himself praying. _Please,_ he pleaded, _Please let her be fine. Please never let me feel this way again. I have to be strong, for Benjen, for Lyanna, for father._

The gods might have listened, but they never seemed to answer.

\---

The trip to Storm's End was shorter one than expected, thanks to a handful of deciding factors. Ned had brought only 4 men with him, and among them was Howland Reed, who tagged along with them when they reached the Neck. They rode all day and through most of the night, and did not lengthen their journey by finding inns or sleeping long nights. They would simply camp where they were and hold watches in shifts. Food may have been bought from a nearby village, or hunted if one wasn't close by. It wasn't the most comfortable arrangement, but it afforded them the luxury of reaching Storm's End in a matter of a single week.

When they arrived, it was quickly discovered that the raven had reached him first. Robert did not spare a single greeting when he met them in the castle, instead quickly jumping to the issue at hand.

"Have you heard any news of her yet?" Was his friend's first words to him. Ned was road weary and saddle sore, and although his sister's condition was of utmost importance to him, his own condition was getting the best of him.

"Can we wash up and rest first, Robert?" He asked wearily, his bones aching. "Gods be good, we've been on the road for so-"

"The Others take you, Ned, tell me!" Robert thundered, his usually bright blue eyes turning hard and cold. Ned knew it was best not to argue then.

"There is no news," Ned replied sharply, sparing him no emotion. He had received some letters on the road, but they were all the same: _No sign of her yet, but we are still looking..._.

Robert ran a hand through his hair, clutching a handful of it as if he meant to tear it out. His previously cold eyes now struck Ned as very somber. With a sigh, Ned placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "They're still looking, Robert. She is out there somewhere, I swear it to you." His friend only nodded weakly before waving them off and walking away, shoulders slumped. It was his steward who greeted them then, showing them to their rooms and promising a meal within the hour. Ned had been glad to see a featherbed and a warm bath already prepared for him, and struggled to decide which to throw himself into first. Clutching the front of his shirt, he held it to his nose and breathed in the foul scent. _A bath it is, then._ He stripped himself of the murky clothes and stepped in the bathtub, where it felt as if the tepid water was peeling the dirt off him. The stillness of the bathroom and the feeling of the warm water on his bare skin nearly lulled him to sleep; he fought it off with hard scrubbing, and when he was done, he stepped out reluctantly to dry off and change into clean clothes. When he flopped into bed, a knock came at his door followed by a message: "Supper is ready, m'lord!" Ned's stomach growled, as if on queue, and he climbed out of bed with a groan to make his way down to the great hall.

There he found his men all clean, with eyes heavy-lidded from lack of sleep. Only when Ned sat down did they begin to reach for something to eat; They all devoured their food fairly quickly and with an almost savage passion. Even Howland, quiet and uncomplaining as he was, relished in the meal set before him. It had been an arduous journey. They all deserved it. It was at the end of this meal that Robert appeared again and asked to speak with Ned alone. The men consented without a word, clearing the hall to allow them some privacy. Once alone, Robert spoke.

"Who do you think took her?" Was his question, and what a very good question it was, as it had no answer.

"We do not know," Ned admitted with a heavy heart. Robert did not press him further, and a brief silence pervaded the two men.

"She's been all I've been thinking of for the past few months," Robert murmured, his sad eyes cast downward. "I thought of her so often, Ned, I swear I felt her in my arms, tasted her sweet lips. And the wedding..." When he raised his eyes to meet Ned's, they struck him as looking very distant, as if his body was here but his soul was somewhere far away. "It was supposed to be in a week. Then she would have been _mine_ , under my protection, with me always. I had that heart tree brought in from the North and planted here, because I knew she loved her gods. I had my steward look into buying puppies from a villager. I thought she might like puppies..." He trailed off, the hopeful words dying on his lips. Ned's heart felt heavy in his chest, weighed down by the sorrows of his friend.

"She's not dead, Robert. She's gone, but we'll find her." Ned flashed him a small smile, a meager attempt at cheering him up. In truth, she might have been dead, but his brotherly instincts convinced him otherwise.

"I swear I'll kill whoever took her," Robert said gruffly, every trace sorrow leaving his face, instead replaced with a feral ferocity. "I don't care who he is, I will drive my hammer right through his chest and I'll watch him die." Passion burned in his blue eyes, melting away all the ice from before. "She's _mine_ ," he emphasized, slamming a fist down on the table, "Mine to love, mine to keep, mine to protect. I swear, if I learn that they laid a hand on her, I'll hunt them down and their families and slaughter all of them." This was the fearsome Robert Baratheon speaking, the one who was capable with a sword and more than capable with a warhammer. The one whose large fists could break bones if they struck hard enough. His anger permeated around him, thick and palpable, and redder than blood.

"We'll find her," Ned assured him again, his voice feeble compared to Robert's, "And we'll find them as well." He could not muster up the passion that Robert had; not once since she had disappeared did he feel unbridled rage, or even overwhelming sorrow. The knowledge had only left him worrying for his sister, his nerves wracked with a trembling anxiety. Even that he had tried to supress. He had resolved to be brave in Winterfell, and with that came a stoic exterior that masked his frazzled interior. The gods were the only ones who knew the extent of his fret; every night he prayed for her return, safe and sound, and on more than one occasion he had found himself in tears.

Robert placed his hands on his shoulders, rousing Ned to attention. Robert's firey blue eyes locked with Ned's cool grey ones, and with a stubborn jut of jaw, he said, "We'll ride out tomorrow. Maybe they got this far." Ned could tell by his demanding voice and the grip that Robert had on him that he could not get out of this, as tired as he was. Still, Robert was not deterred by his hesitation, and did not remove himself from him. It was only when Ned gave him a weak nod, did he let go and leave him to his own devices.

As promised, the next day of searching stretched into the next week, until it turned into a whole month. Some rides were longer than others; some were only a few hours out of the day, others, a whole day, and the longest was three. Each time they returned with no luck, no hints- until rumors started to bloom. It had first reached them through Robert's steward. They were supping when he interrupted with many apologies. He was a middle aged man, with many wrinkles that made him appear older than he actually was. He was serious as well, with hard brown eyes and no trace of mirth in the lines of his face. But he was true, and he worked hard.

"My lords," he said with a bow, addressing the table at whole. He then turned to Robert. "I must speak with you and Lord Stark immediately," he whispered just loud enough for Ned to hear.

"Is it about Lyanna?" Was Robert's immediate question.

"Aye, my lord. It is sensitive information."

At those words, Robert stood up, throwing his napkin down as he did so. "Out!" He bellowed to the attendees at the table- all four of them Ned's men. As they began to shuffle out awkwardly, Ned called back for Howland. The crannogman cautiously made his way to Ned's side. Robert glowered at him for an answer, which Ned provided,

"He can be trusted." That was enough for Robert, it appeared, as he turned back to his steward with all focus.

The man cleared his throat, his dark eyes looking across to each lord. "I can say with all certainty that the Prince Rhaegar had left King's Landing two moons ago, only a couple of weeks before the Lady Lyanna's disappearance." Ned blinked at the wrinkled man, befuddled. What did the prince have to do with her? "He did not go alone. With him were three members of the Kingsguard: Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent. I am aware that the prince had crowned the Lady Lyanna at Harrenhal, and felt as if it might be of some-"

"The bastard!" Robert thundered, his rage coming upon him as sudden as a storm. He was wild-eyed, red-faced, and a vein in his head was trobbing as he spoke. "He took her! He had to, by the gods, he had to. That royal ass had been eyeing her since that damned tourney-"

"Robert," Ned cut him off cooly, "Just because he is gone means nothing. The prince has been known for taking trips like these." Ned refused to jump to conclusions, particularly concerning the royal family. An accusation against them and they would have their heads on spikes.

"And it's all a big coincidence, then?" Robert snapped back, holding onto the first possible answer like a child and its favorite toy. "Because he is the good and honorable prince, he could not have done it? This is the man who passed over his own wife to crown your sister- or have you forgotten?"

"I have not-"

"And he brings along three capable men with him. Ned, you cannot tell me that it is without cause-"

"The prince crowned her, but it does not mean he took her!" Ned shot back, raising his voice. Ned was never so loud nor so aggressive, and it stunned Robert into silence. "Do not be hasty. It has been over a year since that event; he shared no words with her, only saw her from afar. He knows her not." It simply couldn't have been the prince. What reason would he have to steal off Lyanna, whom he had never known? She was a pretty face in the crowd to him, nothing more, nothing less. His reasons for crowning her were unknown by Lyanna, even. She was nothing to him.

"The prince knows her well, Eddard," Howland's small voice spoke from beside him. Ned blinked at him, as if just remembering that he was there at all. "Your sister had met him in the woods. She said he was kind to her. He kept a secret for her." For a moment, no one spoke. All were staring at the Lord of Greywater Watch with inquisitive eyes that begged him to press forward. "Lyanna was the Knight of the Laughing Tree. She went to the woods to hide her armor. The prince came upon her and offered to help. And he chose not to turn her over to the king." The crannogman lowered his gaze now, fearing he had said too much. His dark hair covered his eyes and cast a shadow over his ruddy face.

The three men took a moment to soak it in, yet Ned doubted any of them were as alarmed as he was. Lyanna had never told him that, and she told him _everything_. Ned thought back to the tourney, during those days that the Knight of the Laughing Tree jousted. Lyanna had said that she felt ill during those days, and when he disappeared Lyanna reappeared. He recalled Benjen cheering so lustily for that knight when he advanced and trembling in fear when he mounted his horse. It all seemed to make sense now. Even her crowning seemed to have some semblence of an answer.

"He took her," Ned found himself murmuring to no one in particular. While the reason was still unclear, the perpetrator was not.

"My lord, if you would like me to send a letter of these recent findings to the Lord Stark in Winterfell, I will do so with haste," the steward addressed the silent Robert. He gave him a meek nod, and the man was off to perform his duties.

The next day, a raven from his father came; he had reached the same conclusion before them, through a letter from the King's council. _From them I received a short letter, with very few lines. It read: 'Ser Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, has claimed your Lyanna Stark as his own. Any actions taken to claim her back will be considered an act of treason, and the punishment will be carried out accordingly.' They provided that, and little else._  He pressed them not to share it with Brandon. _Your brother is well on his way to Riverrun by now. He is to be married, though he protested, insisting it be postponed. One delayed wedding is enough. I urge you not to tell him a word of this. I will tell him myself when he returns to Winterfell. Then will we decide what we shall do. Until then, do nothing and say nothing._

They had sent Jon Arryn a letter, however, as he was one of the few men that could be trusted, and certainly the only man to persuade the outraged Robert to stay still.  _Do not stir from Storm's End. Stay quiet. Send no letters to anyone regarding the matter. To get the Lady Lyanna back, we must be cautious. If war is to be waged, we must be patient._

The talk of war and vows of silence perturbed Ned greatly. He was only 21, such a young age to be thinking of rebellion and treason. Aegon I had been older than that when he conquered the Seven Kingdoms, yet he had planned for years and years. What was more, the Targaryen king's war was one of ambition, not of honor and slight. But where Ned was reluctant, Robert was eager. He spent his nights in Ned's chambers, talking his ear off with all he planned to do. "I swear I will kill him," he would spit every night, many times over, all while refusing to say his name. "For taking her, for raping her." Ned would wince at the word. He had never imagined the kind prince as a raper, but he found it even harder to think of such an atrocity being committed on his fair sister. Yet where Ned cringed and closed his eyes to expel the painful thought, the concept seemed to throw dry sticks into the fire that had burned in Robert's heart. "For even _looking_ at her, I will kill him for it."

Ned prayed for more peaceful measures. Negotiation, promises, and treaties- the tools of a reasonable man who preferred the pen over the sword. _But none of that will restore Lyanna's honor,_ the proud voice in his head would say. His sister may return to him through peaceful actions, but it would be her who would pay the price, not the men who hurt her. Was harmony within the kingdoms more important that avenging a broken sister, a dishonored woman?

_No,_  his head and his heart seemed to say at the same time. _If you must fight, you will._

War was just on the horizon. It just needed a spark before it would come crashing toward him and everyone he loved, recklessly destroying everything in its path, its bite harsher than winter.

All Ned could do was brace himself.


	19. Rhaegar // Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at Dorne begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! I plan to get around to answering your lovely comments soon; do understand that I am so grateful for all your feedback and for reading. You are all beautiful.

The road to Dorne had been predictably arduous. They had avoided major roads, and took a fairly roundabout route to subvert villages and towns, as it would have been difficult to hide their identities there. Rhaegar's silver hair would have been a dead giveaway. Even if covered, the knights he traveled with wore armor that was all too distinctive. Only Lyanna would have been unrecogizable, as her face was an unfamiliar one; but perhaps it would also be her face that would give them away. One would only need to walk into a town and ask if they've seen a pretty dark haired maid with grey eyes, and all the men would recall her.

As difficult as the journey had been, Rhaegar's new bride was surprisingly uncomplaining. She slept by the fire with the rest of them, her head often on Rhaegar's lap, and did not seem to mind the dirt or the bugs. Even when her white dress became dirty and tattered, she did not speak up; she did, however, accept Rhaegar's spare change of a shirt and trousers with a polite thank you and a sheepish smile.

Her resilience was further proven when she offered to take a watch during the nights, insisting that she had to do her part on this journey. She wasn't easy to refuse either, and Rhaegar had allowed her on the condition that he would do her shift with her, to which she begrudgingly accepted. The first night she took her watch, Arthur had taken Dawn off his back and handed it to her. "You'll need a sword, my lady," he had explained with a kind smile. Lyanna gawked at the brilliant blade, her arms evidently straining under its great weight. She managed a stuttering thank you and spent that night, and nearly every night after that, polishing it to a blinding sheen by the fire. Rhaegar watched as she stroked every inch of it, traced the engravings in the hilt with her fingers a thousand times over, her awe never leaving her. The watches they held together were mostly silent due to Rhaegar's natural inclination to keeping quiet and Lyanna's absorption in the blade. He didn't mind it much.

One night, the routine changed. Lyanna had set Dawn on the ground in front of him and plopped herself onto his lap. It was then, with his arms around her and his nose in her hair that she began to speak to him as she used to in her letters. She whispered tales of Winterfell, of her brothers, of her life growing up. It went on like this for many nights until she suddenly turned around in his lap to straddle his waist and unabashedly asked him to kiss her. He could scarcely deny her, what with her smoky grey eyes and inviting red lips, and they began to spend most of their watches with his hands on her and her hands in his hair. Less watching then they should be doing, really.

That aside, it became evident to Rhaegar that she had wriggled into the hearts of his men as well. It wasn't hard for her to do; she was a woman, and that fact alone might have won their favor, but she was a capable one at that. Not once did she lament the hardships of the road, or fill a silence with mindless chatter, nor was she so quiet that they did not learn her. She japed and laughed among the whole of them, made her thoughts clear, and had treated them with utmost respect. She urged the lot of them to call her Lyanna, though Arthur had refused and continued to call her "my lady" or "your grace" much to her apparent chagrin. Yet even her irritation struck them as oddly charming.

Upon reaching Dorne after a few long weeks, all that was left was a day's ride through the Red Mountains to reach where they would be staying. Rhaegar had begun to tell Lyanna about it, that it was named the Tower of Joy, and it was well hidden in the dusty mountains. "It's grand round tower," he had told her, "Completely surrounded by mountains. There's a pond behind it and a yard in front of it. It's unlike anything you've ever seen."

He had alerted the servants that tended the place beforehand that they would be coming, and once they had arrived, everything was in its place. Their rooms had been arranged, the wardrobes filled with fresh clothes, baths were prepared and food was ready, hot and succulent, and much needed after they finished their freshening up.

That night Rhaegar and Lyanna made love, and it was the first time he heard her lovers song. It was a loud, breathy symphony of moans and desperate cries, his name throaty when she reached her climax. She tugged at his hair and clawed at his back, and he felt her legs tighten around his hips whenever she was especially pleased. After only a few instances of their nightly passions, every ounce of restraint he had practiced with Elia had evaporated under the hot Dorne sun. She had proven to be a wild, lusty creature, hungry for flesh and gratification that Rhaegar was glad to give her. And in the afterglow of their love, she would lay on his chest and plant little kisses on his neck and collar, still craving his affections.

During the entirety of the first week, Rhaegar's thoughts were occupied by her, and her alone. Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon- they were precious memories that hid in the dark recesses of his mind, only coming to the front when a bout of guilt struck him. He had left them so suddenly, after all, and for another woman. But what a woman she was, his carrier of a prophecy. A part of him warned him against falling for, that she was meant for the purpose of delivering his prince. Rhaegar chose to ignore that voice, for often when he was around her, she was simply Lyanna, fair and sweet. The fact that she was to carry a hero had been pushed to the back of his mind.

One afternoon, Rhaegar was out in the yard in front of the tower, practicing swordplay with his men, when Lyanna showed up in trousers and a man's shirt, both articles baggy and rolled up. She had been a quiet observer thus far, but today she walked into the yard with a sense of purpose.

Rhaegar's eyes and the eyes of his men followed her as she went to the weapon rack to pick out a sword, and as she made her way to them, head held high.

"I wish to train with you," she announced with a definitive air, as if it were a royal decree. Ser Oswell let out an amused chuckle, and she whipped her head in his direction to glower at him.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar called to her with a kind smile. Her gaze softened as she looked upon him, though her stubborn jut of jaw remained. "I'm afraid that training with us will be quite different than training with your brother. Perhaps you ought not to." He had meant to dissuade her, but she could not be shaken so easily.

"I _want_ to," she shot back without missing a beat. "I've watched my brothers play at it for years, and now I want to as well."

Rhaegar could feel the knights' gazes shift to him for an answer. "You're likely to hurt yourself, sweet child." He had not meant it as a slight, but she took it as such, and she glared at him harshly for it.

"I am not a child!" She boomed, the brunt of her anger directed at him. "I can handle myself and I can carry a sword. I want to train with you." She said with a conclusive air.

"We'll speak about it tonight," Rhaegar returned. Arguing was not his strong point, and it was even less desirable in front of his men.

"But-"

"Tonight."

She glared at him for a second longer before turning on her heel, putting up her sword, and making her way inside the tower. Rhaegar gave an exasperated sigh, and turned to the knights with a shrug. The men had been respectfully quiet, but upon Lyanna's exit they broke out into amused laughter. Even the stoic Ser Gerold mustered a smile and shook his head.

"If you do not mind my saying so, your grace," Arthur piped up with a smile, "It appears as if she's a bit too wild for her own good."

"Aye. I suppose she is," Rhaegar agreed half-heartedly. _But if she weren't wild, she may have never come with me to begin with._

They continued their training without another glimpse of Lyanna, which meant their attentions were focused solely on their swords. They were men of near-equal strength, making their battles long and often without a clear victor. Still, it made for good fun and even better exercise. Rhaegar had often trained with the soldiers back in King's Landing, sometimes leading the drills himself. The weather was much milder back there than it was here, however. Whilst training here, the scorching Dorne sun would eventually get the best of them, as it striked mericilessly upon their backs and shone in their eyes to blind them. By the end of it all, the four men would often be without their armor and sometimes without their shirts. It would make for more dangerous parlay, if it weren't for their capability and extreme caution.

They did not let up until a maidservant came out to call them for supper, which they were glad to attend. Rhaegar picked up his shirt off a bench to wipe the sweat off his face before he pulled it on. He entered the dining room to find Lyanna already seated and waiting, playing with her fork aimlessly as she did so. When he sat in the chair beside her, she did not spare him a glance. Her anger at him was coming off her in waves that Rhaegar felt down to his bones.

He found himself intensely aware of her actions during supper; she laughed and chatted with the knights, but immediately fell silent whenever Rhaegar spoke. She smiled sweetly at all except him. When Rhaegar excused himself from the table, she did not follow him out, instead opting to poke at her food. Rhaegar considered himself to be a smart man, but his winter maiden was a puzzle he had yet to put together. It was no use fretting over it now; they shared the same bed, after all, and he knew he find her there despite her feelings of displeasure.

He climbed the stairs to the very top of the tower, to the bedroom that took up the whole floor. Rhaegar had picked it as it was the coolest room in the tower, spacious and with a balcony and large windows that let the air flow in. The bed was situated under one of the those windows, straight in the center; to the right of it was a writing desk and to the left was the washroom, where a bath had already been prepared for him. By the door was a vanity with a chair in front of it. Rhaegar undressed, draping his dirty clothes on the chair, and entered the washroom, closing the door behind him as he did so.

The bathwater was cool and refreshing, and a very welcome change to the heat he had been subjected to all day. After quite some time simply lounging in tub, Rhaegar finally set to scrubbing himself clean and washing his hair. It was near the end of his bath the he heard Lyanna enter from behind the door. He hastened his washing then, eager to speak to her, settle her. Afterward, he climbed out, wrung out his hair and tied it at the nape of his neck before pulling on a robe that he tied loosely around his waist.

Stepping out from the washroom, Rhaegar found Lyanna laying on the bed, her head buried in the pillow. She whipped her head up when she heard him enter, just long enough for Rhaegar to catch sight of her red-rimmed eyes before she put her face back into the pillow.

"Lyanna," he murmured softly, sitting down beside her on the bed. He placed a tentative hand on her back, which he pushed off. "Is this about earlier today?" He didn't think she would react like this; his she-wolf was made of sterner stuff, to be sure.

"It _was_ ," she said into the pillow, her voice coming out muffled. "And then I got to thinking about other things."

"What is it, sweetling?" It pained him to see her so distraught when he had only seen her as joyful for the past month. 

"I miss Winterfell," she sniffled. "I miss my brothers, and my father and the roses and my horse and-" A new wave of sobs shook her shoulders, slurring the words in her mouth. She sat up hurridly, turning her back to him. Rhaegar could see her wipe at her eyes, though she tried to hide it. "They must be so worried..." was all he was able to make out.

"Come here," he commanded softly, opening his arms to her. She had hesitated before turning to look at him, as if struggling between her pride and her desire for comfort. Ultimately, she crawled over to him, sat in his lap, and buried her face in his chest. She seemed almost child-like in his arms, so small and sad and yearning. He rubbed her back as she yielded to an outpouring of emotions.

"I want Winterfell and summer snows and long rides where the air is cold and it isn't so damned _hot_ like it is here. I hate Dorne. It's unbearable and its so dry and red..." The rest of her words dissolved into an incoherent blubbering, and she clutched the edge of his robe to hide her face.

It had occurred to him that she might be homesick, so attached to Winterfell as she was, and so far from it now. But it appeared to come upon her so suddenly and all at once, that Rhaegar found himself at a loss for what to do. He continued to rub her back and thread his fingers through her hair until her sobs dwindled down into sniffles. It was then that he rustled up the right words to say.

"I cannot change the weather, Lyanna, nor can I remove the mountains," Rhaegar murmured with a kind smile. When she did not reply, he continued. "I can, however, bring you blue winter roses straight from the North and anything else you want. I'll ask them to bottle the air and send it here, even." She shifted in his lap then, sitting up straight to look at him. Her eyes were red and her face was tearstreaked, but she was calmer now. "Would you like that?"

"I would like the roses," she replied with a nod.

"Then I'll send for them." He tilted her chin up so that he may kiss her, but she turned her head, refusing him the treat.

"Still," She murmured sadly, "I miss my family very much. They must be terribly worried."

 _They are,_ he wanted to say. A letter from Jon had been on his desk when he first arrived, asking about his health and revealing that her family had been scouring every last inch of the North for some sign her. Rhaegar withheld it from her, fearing the news would trouble her greatly.

"You said you sent them a letter?" she asked him. He had done that also, however indirectly. He wrote Jon to send Lord Stark a letter on behalf of the King's Council explaining the situation. Even so, Rhaegar doubted it had done much to quell their fears. The only daughter of the North was gone- whether it was by fair or foul play, it did not matter.

"Aye, I did." He felt her relax in his arms at the affirmation. Now she was shifting in his lap, turning her body so that she straddled his waist.

"Can I send a letter too?" She asked, her voice taking on a sultry edge. Rhaegar placed his hands on her hips, sensing what was coming next.

"Perhaps." He couldn't yield to her so easy.

"Say yes." Gods, but he had to.

"Yes." Rhaegar moved to kiss her again, which this time she accepted with a hungry passion. How quickly she can turn from a sobbing child to a lusty maid! It wasn't long before he had her on her back, her shirt disposed of, and she was arching into him, ready for more. Rhaegar was reaching for the laces of her trousers when she stopped him, catching him by the wrist. She stared at him with smoky eyes as she pushed his arm back, her knee pressing into his hip as she slowly, deliberately turned him on his back.

Rhaegar licked his lips in anticipation when she poistioned herself on top of him. His robe had been opened now, no longer hiding his arousal. A sense of impatience washed over him as he reached for the laces of her trousers again, this time with his free hand, eager to get them off. And as from before, she caught it by the wrist and with a mischievious smile, leaned forward to press his hands on the pillows beside his head. She rolled her hips over his hard cock one, two, three times, each time dragging the soft skin of her breasts across his bare chest. Rhaegar, who was usually not one to make noise, moaned softly.

She had stilled her movements upon hearing that and bent forward so that their stomachs lay flat against each other, her breasts pressing to his ribs. Rhaegar wanted desperately to lay his hands on her back, move down to her bottom, to her thighs, just for the sheer pleasure he gained from touching her. His hands were still pinned down, however, and although he could easily free them, he knew that it pleased her greatly that he wouldn't. "Rhaegar?" She breathed, her lips now grazing over his neck. He felt her tongue flick out and tease the skin there.

"Y-yes?" He managed to stutter in reply, feeling his head grow heavy with lust. She was playing with him, pushing him to the edge of desire. Had he been a rougher man he might have thrown her down and had his way; alas, Rhaegar was not a rough man, and in a queer way he found her teasing game quite enjoyable.

"Can I train with you and the knights?" She murmured before planting kisses down his neck. _So that's it then._ She truly was playing with him, yet Rhaegar couldn't find it in him to feel offended at that. The heat of her breath on his skin was bending him to her will and he simply couldn't resist. Had he been a stronger man- Well, what did it matter by this point? 

"Whatever you want, m-my love."

And that was that.

\---

Sleep eluded Rhaegar that evening. He had often had trouble falling asleep, though something in particular was weighing on his mind tonight. Lyanna had talked more of Winterfell after they had made love, laying on his chest as she always did, making it known her thoughts and emotions. Her talk of home stirred up memories of his own, of Elia and the children he left behind, of the mad father who guarded himself in the walls of the castle, of his tired mother and his lonely brother. These were mostly unpleasant thoughts that did not bring him the wistfulness that Lyanna had. It brought guilt, shame, and a bad taste in his mouth. _Arthur,_ the name of his close friend and confidant came to mind, _I must ask him._

He moved out from under her head, careful not to stir her from sleep, and laid her gently on the pillows.

"Rhaegar," she moaned, low and sweet, and she pouted in her sleep. She was so much like a child sometimes, and yet very much like a woman at others. Just as she bewildered him in his dreams, she now astonished him in the flesh.

Rhaegar searched in the dark of the wardrobe for smallclothes, a shirt and trousers, and put them on. He opened the door to the room slowly, careful not to make any noise, as he slipped out, closing the door sluggishly behind him. The knights' chambers were all on the same floor, only one level below the grand bedroom on the top. Arthur's was the one closest to the stairs. Rhaegar knocked twice on the wooden door and in a matter of seconds it was opened to him. Arthur was dressed in his own smallclothes, meant for bed, but by looking at his face Rhaegar could tell he had yet to sleep.

"Your grace," Arthur said promptly, and with all courtesy. He gave a deep bow before backing away from the doorframe, motioning for him to come in. Rhaegar made his way to one of the two chairs by the writing desk situated next to the bed, whose sheets were still untouched. Arthur chose not to sit in the chair set before him, instead standing straight with hands folded in front of him, like a soldier awaiting his orders.

"Sit, Arthur," Rhaegar commanded to the knight, to which he swiftly obeyed. "I've come to ask your thoughts on a personal matter." Arthur did not reply; he simply sat in anticipation with a grave look on his face. "Is what I did wrong? Leaving my family, taking Lyanna here... is it wrong?" Oh, how the issue weighed on his mind. He tried to be a good man, yet it seemed very difficult for him to be just that.

"It is not my place to judge your actions, your grace," Arthur said in a wary voice, as unflinchingly dutiful as ever.

"I've come here so that you may judge them. You believe in the prophecy, do you not?" The prophecy that sparked it all. Rhaegar wondered if the history books would remember what he did for that prophecy. He had a feeling they would.

"Of course, your grace," Arthur assured him, nodding.

"Then tell me: is what I did wrong?" He gave Arthur a hard look, demanding an answer.

"What you did may bring about war, your grace, but war is not wrong. It cleanses. The land needs cleaning, and the castle moreso," This was the wise Arthur speaking, the one whose opinions Rhaegar treasured above all elses. He stayed silent to allow him to continue. "You were honest to your wife, the Princess Elia, and true. The Lady Lyanna wedded you with her consent, and she will bring your prince into the world. My lord, you've broken no laws. Your honor remains umblemished."

Rhaegar stayed silent, mulling over his words. _Perhaps he's right,_ he told himself. _But if I've done no wrong, then why does it feel as if a cloud of doom looms over my head?_

"You have not been dishonest with her, have you? You told her you love her; do you?" The question struck Rhaegar as strange, yet looking into Arthur's solemn face he could seem to understand its purpose. Just as he pledged his life to Rhaegar's, he had done to same to Lyanna. He aimed to protect both.

"Aye, Arthur, I truly do." Among all the guilt, that much felt right. "When this is all over... when she delivers my son, I will bring her back to King's Landing and marry her again, so the whole world can see their queen." He could see it so clearly: Lyanna dressed in her finest silks, walking down the aisle in the Great Sept of Baelor. They will cheer for her, love her as he does.

"You will have two wives," Arthur stated, as if clarifying.

"Aegon had two wives," Rhaegar pointed out. "When I am king there will be no one to stop me from taking another. Gods be good, I already have two. It's just that not everyone knows it yet." He had already said his vows before the Old Gods and the New. They saw him cloak her, take her under his protection, and bed her right in their godswood. The second ceremony at King's Landing will only be a formality.

"She seems... a kind lady," Arthur stated, throwing Rhaegar a cautious look. "Fierce."

"That she is." Fierce and wild and above all, loving.

"Will her family see her as worth starting a war over?"

"I imagine they would. At least Robert Baratheon would." Lyanna had spoken of her former betrothed on a few ocassions, of his behaviors and his jealousies. _"He isn't gentle like you are,"_ she had whispered once as she was drifting off to sleep. _"He doesn't love me like you do."_

"And you're prepared for that?" 

"I will not allow it to reach this far," Rhaegar promised, clenching his jaw. He had chosen to stay at this place because it was so removed, so secluded. It was meant to be the safest place possible for them. "But if it does..."

"You have my sword, your grace," Arthur said solemnly. "You always do. You always will."

"Thank you, Ser Arthur." Arthur Dayne, so honorable and true, good and noble. His promises were stronger than the bite of his blade, and it was promises that Rhaegar had been investing in.

 _Promises and a prophecy,_ Rhaegar considered those two words, how alike yet how different they were. _That is what I'm building my kingdom on._ He brought three kingsguard knights far from their king on their promises to protect their prince, forever and always. Jon swore his loyalty to him, a promise he vowed to keep until his dying day. An ancient prophecy drew him to Lyanna, to love, and ultimately into vows that were sealed with a cloak, a promise to protect her. He promised Elia he would come back as a king, with a prince that would be a deliverer of light to a land shrouded in darkness. He had Jaime Lannister, the young golden knight, swear to protect Elia and their children while he was away. Even the prophecy itself was a promise; the promise of a prince who would save the world. So many vows taken, so many deals struck, so many words taken, to bring him to where he was now and to pull him into the future.

It was a future with a second wife and a prince that was promised.

"You must understand, Arthur," Rhaegar found himself muttering in a grave voice, "That the prophecy... above all else..."

"I understand."


	20. Brandon // Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon rides to his doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback! Keep in mind that headcanons differ fromt person to person- and this is mine. enjoy! :)

_I shouldn't be here._ Here, somewhere between Riverrun and Winterfell, too far from home. Here, in a tired old inn filled to the brim with strangers. It was the very last place Brandon wished to be.

His father had insisted that he keep the date for his wedding, a command Brandon found to be incredulous. Lyanna was gone; he should be searching for her still, combing every last mile of the Seven Kingdoms. It wasn't right, to ride off in the midst of all this to bring back a bride he cared little for. It was Lyanna he wanted to bring back. Her above all else.

He had spent the trip with four other men- an Arryn boy, the heir to the Vale, who had come along at his uncle's request; Kyle Royce and Jeffory Mallister, two of his father's men and good friends of his; and Ethan Glover, his own squire. They weren't a boring bunch, but Brandon found it difficult to feel anything but disdain. It had begun with an argument he had with father, on that kept repeating itself in his head:

_"How could you send me off to be married when she's gone? She's your daughter, my sister-"_

_"You will do as I say, Brandon. We've been disgraced already by canceling one wedding-"_

_"Disgraced? Are you mad? How could you think of grace at a time like this?"_

_"You will go to Riverrun, Brandon. You will be wed on the day that had been decided on many moons back. I will not have you miss it."_

_"What of that honor that you speak so much about? What about Lyanna's honor?"_

_"It it precisely because of honor that you must go."_

_"Damn honor then! I've never found much use in it anyways-"_

_"Enough!"_

Even now, sitting in this inn and sipping at a pint of beer, Brandon could not shake off his rage nor his sorrow. He was, in a word, inconsolable. Nothing pleased him, and nothing could please him until Lyanna was back home and safe in Winterfell.

Brandon heaved a sigh, one of many as of late, and looked around the place. It was a fairly run down inn that smelled of ale and roasted meat. The common room was filled near bursting with all sorts of people; there were several minstrels singing everything from classic ballads of ancient battles won to bawdy songs of illicit trysts. In one corner were a few soldiers bearing the Tully sigil, drunkenly telling exaggerated tales of gallantry with women hanging off their arms and squires looking at them adoringly. The rest of the patrons were anonymous drifters trying to get from one place to another and eager for some food and wine. Brandon and his crew were among these travellers.

He put the cool pint to his lips again as he scanned the room, his gaze lingering on people of interest: a woman, plain of face but with inviting lips and a shapely figure; a red-nosed soldier bearing the Tully fish on his chest, with said woman on his lap. He was slight of build, shorter than Brandon was- Brandon imagined he could find a way to persuade the maid on his lap to duck behind the inn with him. Perhaps that would bring him some sort of pleasure on this dreadful trip.

Something caught the soldier's eye, and his gaze went from the girl to somewhere behind Brandon. He smiled widely and waved at it, calling out in a thick voice, "Oi! Well if it isn't Harry! Come on over, lad, grab a pint!"

Brandon followed his gaze to the doorway, where a nervous-looking boy in riding clothes stood, his eyes frantically darting around the room. On the front of his shirt was the Tully sigil, much like the one the drunken soldier wore. The green fish was an unpleasant reminder of what he was riding out to do.

"J-Jon! Af-fraid I can't right n-now, I'm t-to deliver a message," he called back to the soldier. The lad had a noticable stutter.

"Is that r-r-r-right? T-t-t-t-o who?" The soldier mocked the boy's speech pattern, arousing a rumble of laughter from the folks around him. Even Brandon smiled into his beer as he watched the messenger's face redden. Still, the poor boy had the wits to holler back,

"Lord B-Brandon Stark. Have ye s-s-seen him?"

Brandon blinked, taken aback. He felt his men's eyes all rest on him at once. He held a hand up, silently commanding them to do and say nothing. 

"The one that's to wed Lady Catelyn? Lucky bastard, that one- I'd give an eye to bed her." Brandon's gaze turned into a glare, directed right at the drunken fool with the loose tongue. "I haven't seen 'im. If I do I'll congratulate the lucky fellow and send 'im yer way." He gave a lazy grin, raising his pint to the boy in the door.

"A-a-alright then. Th-thank you, Jon." With that, the boy bowed his head and walked out. Brandon threw a handful of coins on the table and stood up, motioning for his men to follow. When they stepped outside, he looked to his right, then to his left, where he found the boy leaning on his horse. In his hand was a copper coin that he aimlessly dropped from one palm to the other. He struck Brandon as looking a mite distracted, perhaps a bit thick, even. This was proven to be true when he stood before the boy, who made no move to acknowledge him. He kept dropping the coin from one hand to the other, fascinated by nothing in particular. Brandon cleared his throat loudly, and the lad jumped, dropping the coin as he did so. He dropped to his knees and scrambled to retrieve the copper again, before staring up at Brandon, trembling like a flower.

"You're looking for Brandon Stark?" Brandon asked the lad, who nodded frantically in reply. "What for?"

"A m-m-m-message from L-Lord Hoster T-T-Tully," The boy stuttered in nervous reply. Upon hearing the Lord's name, Brandon's curiousity was struck. He let the boy get to his feet again.

"I'm Brandon Stark," He told him, who paled even further. The squire bowed deeply, and as he did so Brandon saw the back of his neck turn a tomato red. He suddenly became impatient with the blustering fool, and snapped, "Stop that, boy! What's that message?"

The messenger straightened himself out immediately, nodding vigorously as he did so. He licked his dry lips before finally stammering, "L-Lord Hoster Tully u-u-urges you to pactice- er, _practice_ p-p-patience regarding t-t-the matter of your s-s-sister, the Lady L-Lyanna that is, and to r-r-ride to Riverrun a-a-as soon as you c-can!" After fumbling through his words, the boy began to pant as if he had just exterted himself.

The message confounded Brandon, as it struck him as missing an important detail. "Practice patience? What happened to my sister?" He asked, confused. "Have they found her?" A brief bout of joy fluttered in Brandon's chest. _Lyanna must be home. She's back in Winterfell, safe, and Lord Tully wants me to get this marriage done first before heading back. Damn the blasted wedding. Lyanna's back!_

"M-m'lord, don't y-you know?" The boy blinked at him, and suddenly Brandon felt like a fool. "Y-y-your sister, the Lady L-Lyanna that is, was t-taken by the Prince R-R-Rhaegar."

Brandon's delight turned black, withered into ash, and perished in one fell swoop. In its place was the seed of hate that Rhaegar sowed over a year ago, when he unhorsed him and crowned Lyanna. The seed had burst now and out came a white-hot rage that sprouted in his chest and flew out in all directions. He felt eyes on him from all over: four pairs behind him, belonging to his men, and another right in front of him, blank and shallow. He must have fallen silent for an unsettling amount of time, as he heard Ethan's voice behind him murmur,

"My lord?" His voice sounded so distant, so thick, as if Brandon were plunged underwater and his squire was calling to him from the surface. He felt a hand on his shoulder, though Brandon did not know who it belonged to, and he shrugged it off gruffly. His feet were now taking him somewhere, to behind the inn where the stables were. His stride was long and quick; it was only a matter of 10 seconds before he was mounted and out on the town's main road.

"My lord!" Called out Ethan from below. His voice did not sound so far away now, but rather loud and harsh. Brandon stared at him, stonefaced. "Where are you going?"

"King's Landing," Brandon heard himself say. The words tasted acrid in his mouth. "I'm taking back my sister from that cur." He dared not speak his name. Not yet.

"Wouldn't it be wise to ride out to Riverrun, as Lord Tully says?" The Arryn boy asked with a nervous frown. "Perhaps there we can-"

"The way I see it, you either come with me or you go," Brandon interrupted him. "Ride with me if bear any love for me. Stay if you don't," his words came out as a thin hiss, as threatening as a snake's but with the promise of a bite. Glover, his loyal squire, was the first to mount his horse and ride beside him, followed by Royce and Mallister. The Arryn lad was the last to saddle up and ride, clearly more hesitant than the rest. The men now all looked to Brandon expectantly. "For Lyanna!" He called out, flicking the reins of his horse and barrelling forward. The sound of galloping horses followed him, along with a shout,

"M-m-my lord, you m-m-must wait! What of the L-Lady Catelyn?"

But Brandon was not turning back. Not for Hoster, not for Catelyn, not for anybody.

\---

He rode his horse all through King's Landing, knocking down people and fruit stands and whatever else what in his way. His heart was beating in time with his stallion's stride, a quick thump-thump-thump that Brandon felt pounding in his head. In some muffled distance, shouts could be heard, from smallfolk and guards alike, yet Brandon found that he could not make out a single word. Only one sentence rang clear in his mind: _I'm coming for you Lyanna, your brother's here._

He was still on horseback when he stormed into the Red Keep. He pulled back on the reins, and the horse reared back with a loud whinny. His men did the same, until all five of them were sitting atop their horses in the middle of the Great Hall and its crimson walls. Guards had begun to pour in from all sides, on horseback, on foot, in armor. Brandon pulled his sword from its sheath with a metal whisper and he brandished it with all pride.

"Rhaegar!" He shouted, his strong voice echoing throughout the hall, "Stop hiding behind your castle walls, you craven bastard! Come out and pay for what you did to my sister!" Men were advancing in on him; his horse let out a frightened whinny and reared back, but Brandon was not unhorsed. "Come out and die!" He roared. He heard swords ringing out in battle behind him while men surrounded his panicked horse. Brandon regained control of it and rode through and around the guards, all while swinging his sword low. He knocked some men to the ground, and those unlucky enough to be without armor bled. Rage lended strength to Brandon's sword-arm, and it also drenched his vision in a bright red. The walls of the keep became an even darker shade of crimson, nearly brown, like dried blood. The armor of the men who surrounded him was red, their faces red, his horse red. Even the ropes they threw upon him were red.

One had caught his wrist, the rough cord biting into his skin. It forced his hand open, and his sword dropped to the floor with a loud clang. Another rope was tied around his stallion's neck, another around Brandon's waist, and yet another on his left arm. Down his horse went with a desperate moan, bringing with it his master. Brandon had fallen violently on his back, knocking the wind out of him. As he gasped for air, he felt a sharp, terrible pain at the back of his head, and rivulets of warm blood sliding down his neck.

Brandon was turned onto his stomach by a couple of guards, pinning one arm underneath him and another behind him as a metal boot dug into his back. The arm underneath was his right arm, his sword arm, and the one with a coil of rope around the wrist. Under his weight, the rough cord dug further into his skin, and soon his hand became slick with his life's blood.

Still struggling to breathe, Brandon looked ahead, where his men were bound in a similar fashion. There was blood on all their faces, Brandon realized, though it looked nearly black until his red-tinted vision slowly returned to normal. A sudden rush of air filled Brandon's struggling lungs, and he spent it in a final string of shouts,

"Rhaegar, you craven bastard! Damn you! Damn you!"

As they dragged him and his men away, visions of Lyanna filled his head.

_You brother is here, Lya, I'm coming for you. I'll save you._

And Brandon wept.

\---

The cell was dark, almost completely black save for the dim glow of a lantern many feet away. Brandon couldn't see his own hand when put out inches in front of his face. He saw only darkness, felt only the cold wall at his back, heard nothing but his own breathing, and smelled the dank air, thick with dust. The pain continued for hours; there was a throbbing in the cuts on his wrist, paired with a dull ache in his back kept him from finding any comfort, nor any sleep. Brandon sat awake with image after image rolling in his head:

The stuttering messenger, young and thick, begging him to come to Riverrun. The plain-faced girl on the soldier's lap, giggling stupidly at all his slurred japes. Catelyn, red-haired and fair, carrying herself with all the graces of a lady. Ned, his solemn face, his look that always seemed to warn him for the better- Oh, how he would like to see his brother now, see him shake his head and sigh. Thoughts of Winterfell and all the came with it flooded his mind the most: the practice yard, the stables, the godswood, the Great Hall. The women he loved only briefly haunted him too: aloof Barbrey Ryswell and sultry Ashara Dayne, with her purple eyes and soft thighs. Many times he saw Lyanna, and each time she was happy; in his mind's eye she would smile, or laugh, or pout at him, and something would stir in Brandon to make him smile too.

The sweet brought with it the bitter, however, and Brandon saw Robert, brash and disgraceful, one hand on Lyanna's back and the other on a servingmaid's ass. Still, not even the sight of the whoring southerner stirred in him what the image of Rhaegar did. Many times he saw him down in this black cell, with his lance aimed at Brandon's heart as he unhorsed him. He saw the Kingsguard holding his screaming sister down as the prince touched her, raped her. He saw him laughing in his bedroom, shouting what a fool Brandon Stark is! Each time he saw him, Brandon's blood would boil all over again.

The cell seemed to live out of the touch of time, and Brandon lost track of it completely. Minutes might have felt as long as hours, but he could never really know. He may close his eyes for a second and wake an indiscernible amount of time later to the sounds in his head.

There was a noise that existed out of his own head now; the sound of a door creaking open, the jangling of keys, a soft patter of footsteps. A light seemed to advance toward Brandon's cell, a soft yellow glow growing bigger, brighter as it neared him. Its bearer made himself clear once he reached Brandon's cell. It was a stout man, round in face and body, his middle bulging through the lavish silks he wore. He was as bald as a baby, his dome of a head shining by the light of his lantern. Yet it was his mouth that intrigued Brandon the most; it was a little thing, curved up at the corners, yet it bore a cold smile so secretive, it unnerved him completely.

"Hello, Brandon Stark," the man said in a voice as thin as a snake's hiss.

"Who are you?" Brandon asked wearily, his voice only a faint whisper.

"A spider come to bite you," he replied. Brandon did not know what this meant. "My name is of no importance. Yours, however..." A chilling smile raised the corners of his small lips. "I did not come here to exchange pleasantries, Lord Stark, however it might be a nice change to the silence." Brandon clenched his teeth involuntarily. "No, I've come to see the gallant lord for myself. What you did is very admirable, Lord Stark. Riding into the heart of the Red Keep, with only four men and their swords and horses... And all for your sweet sister. Admirable indeed, but very, very foolish. The prince is not even here." Brandon's mouth went dry at that, and his jaw fell slack.

 _Not here? That can't be, he must be here, he must be..._ The image of Rhaegar laughing at his foolishness swam up to the front of his mind. He surely must be laughing at him now.

"You seem shocked! Did you do any thinking before riding into your grave? Would the prince really bring your sister to a city with thousands of eyes and ears and tongues? You think he would lay with her with his wife and children in the next room? Give your prince some credit, my lord."

Brandon closed his eyes tightly, as if willing his foolishness to leave his body. "I... I didn't think..." he muttered dumbly.

"Oh, I know that. If you did, you wouldn't be here right now, would you?" The man gave a shrill girlish giggle that sent a shiver down Brandon's spine. "It is too late now. The king has charged you with treason of the highest order for threatening the crown prince's life. He commands your father and the fathers of your men to come to King's Landing and answer for these crimes."

Brandon's eyes shot open at this. Perhaps this was meant to be his fate, but it was not his father's. This was Brandon's great blunder- it was him who should answer and no other. "My father had nothing to do this. Neither did my men- I alone will answer for my crimes." He insisted through gritted teeth.

"And deprive your king of the pleasure of killing ten men instead of one? No, my lord, that is not how our great and noble ruler works. It appears you've caught him in a rare mood indeed; usually he bears no love for his son, but today he found it in him to charge you with treason for threatening him. Poor timing on your part." He gave another giggle, and Brandon cringed.

"No!" He growled, low and menacing, "This is my burden to bear. Mine and mine alone. I beg him to spare the lives of my lord father, my men, and their fathers. I will answer for the crime tenfold if need be." Brandon was on his knees at the front of the cell, his hands gripping the wrought-iron bars. The man had stepped back with a sniff, as if an offensive odor had just wafted into the room. Still, he smiled.

"See what gallantry does to you, boy? It is foolish. Grand gestures have a cruel way of going terribly wrong. You must regret your actions quite a bit by now, don't you?"

"No," Brandon found himself disagreeing with bared teeth. "I'd do it again. Only I'd be alone." _For Lyanna,_ he thought. _I'd do it again for Lyanna._

"Then forgive me for saying this, my lord, but you are truly a fool." He sniffed again. "I will see you again when your father arrives. Then will you see the king's justice be served." There was rustle of silks, a return to darkness, and he was gone.

Brandon's hands slipped away from the bars to fall limp at his side. _The king's justice,_ a voice hissed in his mind. _Rhaegar steals my sister, rapes her, and my men and I pay the price._

Suddenly, an old memory surfaced. Brandon was but eight years old, dressed in his warmest furs and sporting his bravest face. It was the memory of the day he was sent off to be fostered at the Barrowlands. _Do you know what wolves do, child?_ His father's steely voice filled his head before his image was built. He saw the grim line of his mouth behind his thick beard, the sparkle in his eye that had existed only before his wife's death. His large hand was on his shoulder. It was gentle, warm, comforting. _Wolves survive. They do not fight what they know will kill them. They will confront only what they know they can fell. The wolf is smart, child, but smarter still with other wolves. A wolf is strong, but he is weak without his pack. The wolf is proud, but it is quiet, and it is their silence that saves them. They make no noise save for their howling in the night. Do you know why wolves howl?_ Brandon had shook his head. _A pack of wolves will howl every night to thank the gods that they are together and not alone. The lone wolf howls to beg the gods for companions before winter comes, for when it does, the lone wolf will die. Do you understand, Brandon?_ He didn't understand. Not then. He had only nodded and his father had smiled at that.

Only now did Brandon understand what he meant. He was a lone wolf now, cold and friendless, but he did not intend to howl at the gods and beg for comrades. This was his burden to carry and he would growl and snarl and bite until death itself silenced him. The gods had put him here- he would not howl for them.

"Damn the prince," he snarled under his breath. "Damn the prince!" He repeated louder. "Damn the king, damn justice, damn the prince!" Brandon was on his feet now, suddenly energized. His hands gripped the bars again, hard enough for the rough metal to sting his palms.

"Shut yer mouth!" He heard a gruff voice shout from down the hall.

"Come and shut it yourself!" He threw back. _Let them know what it means to chain a wolf,_ He seethed inwardly. _Let them feel his bite. Let them taste their own blood before they taste victory._

He had come here to save a member of his pack, and failed. Winter had come and now the lone was to die; in that, his father was right. What he did not mention, however, was that some wolves snarled at the gods, not howled. Some wolves fought those who oppressed him to the bitter end. Some wolves did not need a pack in order to fight.

Some wolves were wilder than others.


	21. Benjen, Lyanna, Ned // Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three siblings react to their brother's imprisonment and the impending doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly getting somewhere... I feel as if including perspective on Brandon is just as important as anything else.

**Benjen**

It had first happened the night after Lyanna disappeared. He had closed his eyes to sleep when a jolt ran through his body and suddenly he was no longer in his bedroom.

He was in the godswood instead, perched in the white branches of the heart tree. Its red leaves rustled in the cool wind, and when Benjen shivered, it ruffled black feathers all over him. That night his gaze had been on the altar, just staring, until he was, by some strange force, somehow pulled out of the godswood and back into his room. He had told no one of this. He told himself it was just a dream.

Yet nearly every night after that one, Benjen would feel a pulse run through his body before he began to look through the eyes of another creature. Some nights he was a rabbit, hopping around the Great Keep and pressing himself to its walls for warmth. Other nights, he was a stray dog that whimpered and begged. Most nights, however, he was a crow, perched in the heart tree. Benjen soon learned that he could flap his black wings, fly into the black night, and feel the wind whistle through his black feathers. It was then that Benjen searched for Lyanna all on his own.

_All on my own._

He had been lonely when Lyanna disappeared. Ned didn't speak to him, Brandon didn't look at him, and his father was always busy in his office. Still, it afforded him a degree of comfort to know that he was not alone- he was lonely, but not alone. But now Ned was gone, and so was Brandon. A desolate lonliness pervaded his soul during all hours of the day. After a few months of this, Benjen learned to get used to it.

So it came as a surprise when his father came to him in his bedroom. A strange tightness formed in Benjen's chest upon seeing him; while his father's expression seemed neither joyful nor grim, Benjen prayed it was good tidings. He had to clench his hands into fists to keep from trembling as violently as he did.

"Is it Lyanna?" Benjen managed to choke out in a quavering voice. When his father shook his head, Benjen swallowed the bitter taste his defeated joy had left behind. It appeared he would not be celebrating tonight.

"The king has summoned me to King's Landing," his father announced in a steady voice. "Brandon has been arrested for threatening the prince's life." At these words, Benjen felt the room sway. He could see father's lips moving, yet he heard no sound for what felt like many hours, though it was likely only a few seconds. "...Somebody must have told him, though who, I do not know. It matters little now. I must go."

"No!" Benjen tried to yell, but the word came out a low whisper. "You cannot leave." His voice was squeaky and hoarse from disuse, as rusty as the hinges on a door that had long been closed.

"And yet I must. I cannot leave your brother there."

_But what about me?_

A sob suddenly came upon him, shaking his shoulders. He bowed his head, watching through bleary eyes how his tears fell onto his lap, leaving small dark splotches on his trousers. Lyanna was gone, Ned was gone, Brandon was gone, and now the only family he still had with him was going too. _It's not fair, it's not fair,_ he kept chanting in his head. Why was he fated to be so alone? Alone and constantly fearing for his siblings, and now his father...

The bed dipped beside him when his father sat down. He placed a large hand on the back of his neck; at his touch Benjen felt the muscles in his body relax and his tears stemmed into pitiful sniffles. It was the first time his father had comforted him at all during those dark moons past.

"You will be Lord of Winterfell in my stead," his father said in his weathered old voice. "You needn't worry about the responsibilites. Our steward Walys will help you in everything."

_I don't care!_ Benjen wanted to shout through his tears. _I don't want Winterfell. I don't want to be a lord. I want Lyanna, I want Ned, Brandon and I want you._ He dared not say it. His father was counting on him to be brave, and already he was in tears. No, his sorrows would be shared with no one for yet another day.

Benjen swallowed the last of his sobs and blinked away the remnants of his tears. He turned his head to look up at his father, whose steely grey eyes became soft and pale. "Please bring them back," Benjen croaked. "Please."  
His father did not answer. He only smiled sadly at his youngest son, and gave the back of his neck a light squeeze. Looking at that smile now, Benjen realized his father knew something that he couldn't share with him. It had seemed, though for only a second, that the world's troubles weighed down the lines of his mouth, and that he couldn't shift them onto anyone.

Unable to resist, Benjen threw himself into his father's arms. He embraced him warmly, held him to his broad chest as if he were a child of six again, and not at all as if he were nearly a man grown.

"Remember the pack, child," his father murmured. "Remember that you cannot survive without them."

_My pack is gone,_ Benjen lamented internally. _I am the lone wolf, just a little pup, howling for a friend._

When his father left his chambers, the air grew heavy with the smoke of solitude. And Benjen was alone again.

The next morning, after Benjen gave his final goodbyes, he went up to his room to close his eyes. As the old familiar feeling rushed through him, Benjen opened his eyes to become a crow. He followed his father for many miles, cawing in prayer all the while. When Benjen returned to his bedroom, he prayed again. A sudden chill passed through the room; when Benjen looked to his window, he found it closed. _It is nothing,_ he told himself. He continued to clasp his hands at the foot of his bed and pray. When the chill grew stronger still, Benjen stopped. He opened his eyes and got to his feet, and the room fell warm again.

Old Nan's voice suddenly filled his head: _The gods always listen. They do not always answer, but they listen._

Perhaps they were listening. Perhaps, for only a few seconds, he wasn't alone.

 

**Lyanna**

"Mmm..." Lyanna moaned into her pillow, grasping the sheets between her hands. She let out a heavy sigh before biting down on it.

"Lyanna..." Rhaegar's voice murmured from behind her.

"Oooh, _yes_..." She gasped, arching her back. Her name sounded so sweet on his lips.

"Lyanna, enough."

She turned around to look at Rhaegar but three feet away, at his desk surrounded by papers and, up until a few moments ago, had been properly ignoring her. Lyanna abhorred these days. He'd spend all morning at his desk, answering letters and reading out of old dusty books. It was then, at his deepest points of absorbtion, that Lyanna would grow restless and try to stir him. Today, it seemed, that it worked. At least she got him to speak.

"Perhaps you should come over here yourself and make me stop," she teased, throwing her lover a coy smile that he did not see.

"I will do no such thing," he returned humorlessly. Lyanna frowned.

"Then maybe I'll go down to Ser Arthur's room and lay in his bed. Surely, he won't ignore me as you do." When Rhaegar didn't reply, she continued, "But then, Ser Oswell has been giving me the eye for quite a while now. Perhaps he'll heed me." Still, he stayed silent, pulled back into the writings on his desk. With a frustrated huff, Lyanna rolled back onto her stomach and propped her chin up on the pillow. While Rhaegar hadn't forbidden her from leaving the room to find a means of entertaining herself, Lyanna didn't like to leave him. Even when he was at his desk having nothing to do with her, Lyanna preferred being in his presence above anyone elses. It lended her an energy and a degree of comfort she had never felt with another. Perhaps it was because he knew her better than any other.

The sound of flapping wings and a bird's caw directed her attentions to the window above her bed. There stood a raven with a piece of paper clasped to his ankle. _More letters,_ Lyanna grumbled inwardly. She nearly had half a mind to shoo it away, but Rhaegar took notice of it first.

"Would you get me that letter, Lya?" He asked of her, not even turning around.

"What are you willing to give me if I do?" She asked with a smirk. She had hoped he would play along, but instead he began to get up from his desk to retrieve it himself. Lyanna furrowed her brows before scrambling to her knees, beating him to the raven and pulling the paper from its leg. She went over to Rhaegar, who was on his feet now, and waved the paper in front of his eyes. He moved to grasp it, but she pulled away. "My price is a kiss," she chided sweetly. He granted her this with little hesitation, taking her face into his hands and capturing her lower lip between his. Lyanna let her eyelids droop shut, relishing in the warmth of his kiss. It was then, when Lyanna's heart had just begun to race, that he took a hand off her face and pulled the paper from between her fingers. Lyanna moved to put her hand on his shoulder, but Rhaegar pulled away then, sitting back down at his desk to resume his work.

"You're a terrible man, Rhaegar Targaryen," Lyanna growled, upset at his pulling away more than his dupe. She expected him to laugh then, perhaps make a jape, or at the very least smile, but his face grew dark instead. His eyes were locked on the letter in his hand for an inordinate amount of time, despite it being fairly short. "Rhaegar?" She murmured softly, placing a hand on the nape of his neck as she did so. He did not stir. There was something wrong, of this Lyanna was sure.

In a bold move, Lyanna pulled the paper from his hands, then took long strides to the other side of the room so that he could not retrieve it so easily. "Lyanna!" He called out to her. She heard him get up behind her, but she paid it no mind, as she was skimming over the contents of the letter with wide eyes.

_Brandon Stark... stormed in... threatened your life... arrested... his lord father and the fathers of... treason... execution._

It was then that Rhaegar reached around her and plucked it from her grasp, but it was too late. Lyanna's eyes remained focused on her hands, which began to shake. Even as Rhaegar stood in front of her and tilted her chin up, she continued to tremble like a flower caught in a relentless breeze, until she suddenly dropped to her knees before him.

"Please!" She cried out to Rhaegar, clasping her quivering hands together. "You cannot let this happen. You must write your father. You must beg for his life. If you love me, you'll do this for me, but I'll do anything, please, please-"

"Lyanna," he interjected in a steady voice. "He will not take my counsel-"

"You must try!" She exclaimed, bowing her head as if the world were weighing down on it. "Brandon thought he was saving me. He is foolish, I know, but he is not bad. He does not deserve this, and my father-" The words were haphazardly spilling out of her mouth, each syllable lined with desperation. _Brandon is not bad, he only means to protect me, as he's always protected me, he is my brother, my older brother, my oldest brother, my stupid, foolish Brandon, please, please..._ Even the voice in her head seemed to quaver at each word.

Rhaegar bent down to hold her arms as he hoisted her to her feet. Her body betrayed her, however, and her wobbly legs nearly gave out from underneath her. Rhaegar instead gathered her up in his arms and carried her over to bed, where he laid her down gently. He moved to straighten himself, but Lyanna caught him by the front of his shirt.

"Promise me you'll write him." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Beg for mercy. I cannot bear..." her voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"I will," he murmured. He pulled the hand clinging to his shirt, kissing her palm before he set it down beside her.

"Promise me," she repeated.

"I promise." He went back to his desk.

Lyanna turned her back to him and pulled her knees to her chest. A headache came upon her, as sudden a storm, and left her feeling paralyzed. So she laid there, curled up on the bed, her heart wrought with worry and her head wracked with pain, until well into the evening. She did not descend for supper despite Rhaegar's insistance. When she was alone, Lyanna pulled out the locket that was burrowed in her bosom. She opened the silver trinket to look upon her mother's face, frozen into a painted smile. Lyanna wondered if her mother would feel as she did now, so helpless and heavy. She wondered if her mother would blame her.

She had a feeling she wouldn't, and yet it wounded her all the same.

 

**Ned**

_Brandon, you fool._

Only his wild, reckless brother would pull off something so stupid. To storm into the heart of the Seven Kingdoms and demand its silver prince to die was begging for death. Yet that was exactly what his older brother had done. He had shirked a wedding to play the gallant knight, and now he was biding his time in the black cells for it.

_A stupid fool._

Ned found that deprecating his brother did well to push back the worry that rose up in his throat. His father was going to King's Landing to answer to a mad king. He did not tell Ned what he had in mind to do. Ned feared the answer.

Robert had taken it upon himself to spout curses at Rhaegar and his family, villifying them as monsters, filthy dragonspawn, sisterfuckers, rapers. He had become as volatile as the wild stag of his house, ready to kick his legs up and ram his antlers into whoever crossed his path.

Shortly before his brother's blunder, Robert and Ned had made their way to the Vale upon Jon Arryn's request. Their guardian must have sensed a storm coming, Ned now realized, when he had asked them to hurry over. He had sent them many letters beforehand urging them to practice caution, patience, to stay silent and stay put. It seemed now that he wanted them near to keep an eye on them; perhaps just the sort of supervision that could have kept Brandon from riding to his doom. But when he did, Jon was called upon to answer for his nephew's "crimes". Jon said he planned on doing no such thing, on fear that it was running into a trap. He had urged Ned's father to do the same, he confided in Ned one evening, but his father had ignored his advice in favor of his sense of duty- not to the king, but to his family.

Already, Ned and Robert were in the very beginnings of a revolt. Robert's steward had come along, and one of his first orders of business was to send out letters questioning the fealty of the Stormlands' sworn houses. There was not a man he did not write- from the smallest houses to the greater ones, he demanded unconditional loyalty from all. Ned had not been so thorough. He chose instead to send letters to his closest allies, only a small handful of individuals as opposed to entire houses, for he needed to know whom he could trust. Ned found that there were many willing to raise their swords in his favor. One such man had come along with him: Howland Reed, the small, soft-spoken crannogman refused to leave his side, though Ned insisted he return to the Neck, as it was safer there.

"My lord, I am sworn to your house," Howland had said in his clear voice. "And I swore my spear and sword to your sister many moons back. This battle is just as much mine as it yours." It was comforting to have the cool-headed companion alongside him; he was a welcoming change to the boiling bull of a man that Robert had become.

Ned was in his room one evening when said man had come to visit him. He had doing this more and more often as of late; most nights he would stomp around and growl and seethe until he was red in the face. Tonight, however, Robert seemed to have no intention of doing so. He shuffled in silently and sat himself down in the chair across from Ned. Neither of them spoke a word for a few moments.

"It should have been me," Robert muttered, breaking the lull. "I'm her betrothed. I'm the one who should have rode in and challenged Rhaegar. I should be in the black cells rotting for her honor- Not your brother."

Ned studied him carefully. His head was bowed and his gaze was focused on his open hands. The brashness that was characteristic of his friend had gone, leaving in its place a harrowing calm. Ned didn't know what to say. What could he say? That it was his brother with his neck on a block, that it was his father that wasn't far behind him? Robert couldn't know how he felt. Robert knew his lust for love, for blood, for war. Not despair and persistent worry.

Ned did not speak. He only buried his face in his hands and bit back the tears that stung his eyes.

"I would die for her. I _should_ die for her. You know that, don't you Ned?" Robert asked in a small voice.

"I lose a brother either way," Ned whispered in a quavering voice. Brandon was his brother by blood. Robert was his brother through love. Both were willing to throw themselves in a dragon's cave for Lyanna, his sister through blood and affection. Yet only one succeeded in finding the way.

The tears came upon Ned all at once. He had prayed the gods for his sister's safety, and they did not grant it. He prayed that Ashara may love him, but they she did no such thing. He prayed them for Brandon's health on the road to Riverrun, and they did not grant it. He prayed them to give his father many more years, yet it seemed as if they were still debating the matter. He ought to hate the gods, Ned realized. They gave him naught but an empty feeling in his chest. Yet those were the same gods his sister prayed to, his brothers, his father, his mother. They were his only connection to them, as scattered as they now were.

"Ned..." Robert murmured softly, a edge of worry lending itself to his voice.

"I lost her too," Ned murmured, his voice barely audible. "Gods be good, I lost her too!" He repeated at a higher volume. He lifted his head out of his hands to meet Robert's surprised eye. "Yet you do not see me acting so foolishly, or speaking so mindlessly. I intend to fight for her, but I intend to _think_ also. What good is it to ride into the Red Keep and demand her back? What could that bring other than despair?" Ned wiped at his tear-streaked face in shame. He had sworn to be brave, yet he had broken down into a weak spectacle of a man.

"That's why I need you," Robert murmured softly. "You and Jon. You two are the only ones who..." He did not finish. He did not need to.

_I must be strong._ He asserted to himself, _I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I must be strong for everyone._ Ned was the rock to lean on. Rocks did not weep, and neither would he. Only when this was all over would he break out of the stone and emerge a wolf, who would spend the rest of his days howling in mourning.

_It is because I am Ned that I must be strong._


	22. Brandon // Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon learns that everything eventually goes away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to kick off a flurry of events. Enjoy!

Brandon was surprised at what a short amount of time it took for pain to numb.

He had been shackled to the wall for nearly a fortnight now (though it may have been more than that; it was hard to tell down there). It was a punishment earned through his misbehavior; it had begun with beatings, where big burly men would come in to shut him up. In that, they had quickly learned that the wolf could bite. Then it was depriving him of meals, of water then to shackles on his hands, then on his ankles, before they chained him to the wall entirely. Now whenever he made noise, they would flog his stomach until his curses dissolved into shouts of pain.

Though the metal had initially cut into his skin, it was the infection that showed up days later that burned the most. But even that stemmed from a persistent stinging to a dull throbbing. Yet every time Brandon would thrash and bellow, the metal would dig into his wrists and ankles, and the pain would come anew. It was when his agony was freshest that Brandon considered obedience to bring an end to the aches he felt over every inch of his battered body; but then it would all fade, and Brandon returned to fight again.

Today was one such day. Brandon had just begun to thrash, the sound of clanging metal chains echoing throughout the bare cell. At each shake, the shackles chafed at his wrists, breaking the dry skin and drawing blood and pus. The stinging had just begun to set in when a group of guards showed up at his cell, bringing with them a lantern that caused Brandon to squint his light-deprived eyes. He had gotten used to the dark by now, and even the dimmest glow burned his eyes. This was another pain that also faded.

"You boys are early," Brandon sneered through chapped lips. It had been nearly three days since they last brought a canteen to his cell. "I hadn't even begun to call your prince any names yet."

The guards moved soundlessly into his cell. Brandon clenched his teeth and dug his nails into his palm to prepare for the blows that were to follow. But they did not come; instead, he heard keys jangling on either side of him, before his wrists and ankles were freed and he fell onto the piss-soaked straw below. Before Brandon could react, metal boots white enough to gleam in the dark appeared before his eyes. He led his gaze up the form to a golden-headed boy in the scaled armor of the Kingsguard.

"Lannister," Brandon hissed, ignoring his title. Anyone associated with the king received no niceties from him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Hands on either side of him pulled him to his feet, where he wobbled precariously before regaining his balance. He hadn't been on his feet in a while.

"Your father has arrived," The knight replied cooly. Brandon's face fell immediately and his head began to reel with fear. He had hoped his father wouldn't come, that he wouldn't have to bear witness to his shame. No, he wanted his father to defy the king, to let him rot in the black cells. It was his life they wanted. His father would just be a bonus. During his stupor, he had been shackled again, at both his wrists and his ankles, and led out of his cell. And so he walked in silence, with the clangor of the chains as being the only sound as they walked him out of the dark depths of the black cells.

As he emerged into the light, Brandon temporarily turned blind. The unfamiliar brightness forced his eyes shut, and he stumbled forward, sightless. Even through closed eyelids, he saw a wall of white that pressed upon his eyeballs. He blinked many times over before the stinging light turned into a dull throbbing, as if someone were pounding behind his eyes.

When he entered the throne room, his vision was nearly clear, but everything seemed to be bathed in a bright glow: the iron throne and the man on it. The Kingsguard knights at his side seemed especially blinding in their shining armor- particularly the Lannister boy with his lustrous hair of spun gold. In the center of the room, Brandon was able to discern a baffling large wooden pole. Off to the side was his father, clad in his armor which was polished to a brilliant sheen. Even he had a venerable luminosity to him, though it was shame and not the stinging brightness that caused Brandon to avert his gaze.

"Brandon Stark!" A shrill voice called from the direction of the throne. Brandon turned to look at the source, finding it was the king. Even squinting, he could see his wild-eyed glare. "I have brought your father here to answer for your crimes. What do you have to say?"

"They are my crimes!" Brandon shot back through bared teeth. "My lord father has no part of this-"

"I will answer for my son's crimes in his place, your grace," his father's strong voice boomed over his. "I ask for a trial by combat."

"No!" Brandon shouted as he struggled against the guards holding him back. "No, father, this is my crime, I will pay the price-"

"Enough, Brandon," his father returned coolly. How many times has he heard those words leave those lips? How his father tried so hard and so often to get him to bend to his will by uttering a singular command and his name. Perhaps Brandon had cowered before, but today he could not. He would need The Stranger to yell 'enough, Brandon' before he would see his father die.

Brandon kept shouting no, no, struggled against his clanging chains, but the king spoke over his noise, "Very well, Lord Stark! You will get your trial." Brandon whipped his head in the king's direction, his eyes wide. _This is wrong, he shouldn't, he cannot-_ "Show Lord Stark his combatant." Aerys's thin lips curled up into a chilling smile.

Brandon watched as two men grabbed his father and dragged him to the pole that had been placed in the center of the room. His father looked at it and blinked, confused. "My lord-"

Suddenly, two more men grabbed him and pushed him against the pole. As his father struggled against them, some of the men began to wind rope across his broad chest and around the pole. In less than a minute, the Lord of Winterfell was bound to his place with no room to writhe.

Brandon began to thrash about wildly, desperate to go to his solemn-faced father. Many hands grabbed at him, held him back as he watched with a puzzled fear how they threw hay at his father's feet. Piles of it were stacked, all the way up to his knees. Then a man stepped forward, seemingly out of thin air, clad in a black hooded robe, and stood before him.

"This isn't fair! This is no trial, damn you!" Brandon was going mad with rage and fear and pain. His voice echoed throughout the throne room, followed by a malicious cackle that belong to the king. "I demand a real trial! It is my crime, and my right! A trial!" There was a hand yanking at his hair, nails digging into his arms, metal biting at his wrists, but Brandon paid no mind to it. His anguish was not in reaction to his body; it was culminated in his image of his bound father, dressed like a king of old in his proud armor, silently accepting his fate.

"Tie the mad dog down." The king snarled, his yellow teeth bared in a wide grin.

The flat of a sword hit Brandon in the stomach, extracting from him a groan and driving him to his knees. Two ropes were bound tightly around his neck, enough to choke him at the slightest movement. The cords were in turn bound to something behind him, but what Brandon did not bother to see.

"Remove his shackles," the was king's next command. Immediately, his order was followed through, and Brandon was free of his chains. It was the first time in weeks that he had been free, yet he did not have the mind to appreciate it. "You've caught me in a generous mood, dog. I'll give you a chance to save your father. If you succeed, you may both go free." Brandon did not trust the king's honeyed words, but he dared not protest. Any chance to save his father was one he'll take. "Throw him a bone."

A longsword was dropped in front of him with a clang. Brandon moved to grab it when a guard inched it just out of his grasp with the toe of his boot. He heard him snicker cruelly.

"Let the battle begin!" The king cried, leaning forward in excitement. The man in the black hood threw a strange liquid at the straw at his father's feet. Smoke began to rise in dark grey tendrils, dancing up to the ceiling, its thick smell permeating throughout the room. Suddenly, a fire was borne under his father, one that surrounded his large form and began to climb. The orange flames licked tentatively at his father's armor, blackening the metal at its touch. "You asked for a trial by combat, Lord Stark. Let me see you fight fire!" He cackled madly, his head thrown back in sick amusement.

Panic set into Brandon's blood. He began to reach for the sword before him, ignoring the rope that bit into his skin around his neck. _Pain fades,_ he told himself. _It goes away. It fades._ He choked on the noose, unable to breathe, yet he pressed forward. His fingertips grazed the cool metal edge more than once, each brush of victory encouraging him to pull even further, to try again, harder this time. Brandon looked through the black specks in his vision to spare a glance at his father; he stood straight, unflinching grey eyes looking forward. There was no fear in his features. Even as the flames extended its orange fingers to his neck, his face remained solemn. He did not yell or shout; he looked hard ahead of him, a silent pride pervading his spirit.

"No!" Brandon mouthed, unable to speak with the cord pressed against his throat. He kept reaching and reaching, ignoring his darkening vision, knowing only that the sword, his salvation, was in front him. He had to keep reaching.

It was not long before Brandon began to feel the heat of the flames radiate towards him. His forehead beaded with sweat, drops of it trickling down his face, his neck, his collar, but he kept reaching. His chest tightened as the last shreds of air began to leave his lungs, but he kept reaching. His head grew light. His breaths became few and far in between, until he couldn't breathe any longer. He was running on sheer willpower and dizzying agony alone. _It fades. Pain fades._

In the reflection of the sword, he saw Lyanna.

_Lya, I'm coming to save you. Your brother's here! I'll save you._ Tears blurred his vision, but he still saw her in the blade, as clear as day. Her arms reached out to him, beckoning him forward.

He obeyed, his fingers brushing her face, and the pain faded. His vision faded. His mind faded.

Everything faded.


	23. Lyanna // Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna grieves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my friends, my friends forgive me  
> That I live and you are gone.  
> There's a grief that can't be spoken.  
> There's a pain goes on and on.

Lyanna could feel herself wilting so far from the North.

She had felt it upon first arriving at Dorne. A bout of homesickness had struck her then, leaving her yearning for the nip of cold northern air and, to a greater degree, the family she left so suddenly. She lost her first petal then, and had dissolved into childish tears at the pain of it.

The knowledge of Brandon's arrest caused her to lose her second petal- this time, far closer to her heart. She spent many days trying to find that part of her again, but had instead subjected herself to an anguish so acute that Lyanna could not bear to think of it any longer. It was only recently that she had returned to the fair, happy Lyanna, as the initial shock of her brother's arrest had no longer weighed so heavy on her soul. She had filled her head with hopeful thoughts instead: That Rhaegar's letter will solve all, that her brother would win his trial, that her father would return home with his son at his side. That Brandon would get married, as he was meant to, and start a new life with the Tully girl. These thoughts turned her blackening petals blue again.

It wasn't until then that Lyanna had realized that the bed she shared with Rhaegar had turned cold. Though she still slept beside him, it was a fitful slumber that was brought upon her, as she tossed and turned through the night. Rhaegar did his best to be sensitive to her plight, perhaps knowing very well her affections for her family. He had offered a nightly comfort in his arms, where she would curl up on his lap and burrow her face in his chest. She did not cry nor did she speak. Rhaegar would simply stroke her dark tresses and murmur reassuring words in her ear. _It will be alright. Think not of the sad things, dear Lyanna. Be happy._ Sometimes he sang to her in the gilded tones of his voice. Over time, she believed his words of hope, convinced herself that there was no other way. Lyanna always marveled at the power he held in his speech. When he spoke of happy things, you became overjoyed. When he spoke of terrible things, you began to tremble. _A voice meant to rule._

In the evenings he did not make any advances and in the mornings he let her sleep in as long as she desired. It took perhaps a fortnight after the news broke before she would lay with him again. She had allowed her mind to think of other things, happier things, and thus the act of lovemaking had become appealing once more.

Today was a day like any other: they were gathered in the training yard, swinging their swords and going about the usual motions. As promised, Lyanna was permitted to join them; it was punishing work to be sure, but infinitely rewarding. Each day she would practice with the greatest knights in the land, and each day they would fell her many, many times. Each time they did, she would hear Rhaegar's musical laugh nearby, and Lyanna would turn to glower at him. She had grown frustrated at this and tried to channel that into her swordplay, but found that it brought on her back even quicker than before. It was Ser Gerold who advised her then, in the cold iron tones of his voice: "Fight with a clear mind. Anger clouds thinking." Lyanna didn't know how much thinking went into swordplay; but with each bit of advice they offered, she eventually learned to put it to use and found that it yielded greater results. Ser Arthur had praised her that day, bringing a flush of pride to her cheeks.

Supper followed, and then a bath, where she had managed to coax Rhaegar into bathing with her. This was perhaps one of her favorite things to do; she would stand on her knees behind him as she washed his silver hair until it shined like polished platinum. He took great care with her own hair as well, combing out the knots and tangles with his long, practiced fingers, but Lyanna often grew impatient as she had far too much hair. She would often pull it from his hands to drape it on her breast so that her back were open to him; then his hands would knead the muscles in her back and remove the aches that had formed from being dropped on it so many times. Once they finished and dried off, they found no need for nightclothes; only their bed and a lover's embrace.

It was in the seconds before sleep overtook her that she realized that Rhaegar had barely said a word since that morning.

The next morning, Lyanna woke up before him- a rare occurrance. She did not linger long in bed, instead choosing to step out on the balcony in nothing but her little cream slip. She leaned on the rail and tilted her head up to catch the first warm rays of the Dorne morning sun.

She looked upon the scenery now, a view that still felt foreign to her. The Red Mountains were all that surrounded the tower on all sides. They were rolling pillars of dust, grand and seemingly insurmountable. If one stared at them for too long, they would appear to double before one's eyes, making them seem endless, more vast. Rhaegar had much love for these mountains, as he often spoke fondly of them, even writing poems about their beauty. He told her he named the tower the Tower of Joy partly because of them. _No harm can reach us here. No sorrow. Only joy._ However, Lyanna felt that their guard was purely physical. Not even the tallest peak in the range could hold back the emotional toil that seemed to tumble over and spill onto the ground at their feet. The Tower of Joy suddenly seemed a gross misnomer.

Rhaegar soundlessly appeared beside her, placing a hand on the small of her back. Her skin prickled at his touch.

"Good morning," he murmured in a clear voice, his eyes on the horizon.

"Good morning," she chimed back. A silence fell between them for a spell, before Lyanna spoke up again. "I have this silly thought in my head that, the longer I stand out here, the better I can bear this heat." Rhaegar tore his gaze from the mountains to look at Lyanna's soft smile. "It is always so hot."

That was one thing Lyanna had yet to grow accustomed to. The sweltering Dorne sun done well to kiss her skin, adding to the freckles that were dashed across her nose and pink cheeks. Rhaegar had done well to kiss each and every one.

He placed his hand on her shoulder now. Though he looked upon her kindly, his voice sounded grave. "Lyanna..." He had said her name like that before, with that apologetic lilt. Lyanna didn't want to hear the rest.

"I know, I know," she chided, wrinkling her freckled nose, "I ought not to complain. I'm with you now- that's all that matters, isn't it? Still, I miss the North..." Trailing off, her gaze returned to the mountains.

He seemed to want to try again: "Lya, I'm afraid-"

"Oh!" She gasped suddenly, cutting him off. "I nearly forgot. I wrote Ned a letter. Do you plan on sending any letters today? Here, let me find it." She slipped out from under Rhaegar's touch to scurry indoors.

She didn't want to hear it.

She made a show out of finding the letter, fussing around in the desk and on her vanity, until she pulled it from where she knew she had left it all along, from the stand beside her bed. Rhaegar had followed her in, closing the doors to the balcony behind him.

"I know you sent a letter to my family, but I feel I ought to send one too. I wanted to write Benjen one too, but I just wrote Ned to read it out loud. I didn't know how many papers the dove can send-"

"Lyanna, there is something I must-"

"Well, here it is!" She cried out a little too loudly. The letter was shaking in her trembling hands. Rhaegar took it and placed it on the desk beside him before folding his hands over hers.

"I fear what I'm about to tell you will wound you, my sweet," he said in a voice meant to soothe; Lyanna began reeling instead. "Your brother Brandon and your lord father have been executed as per my father's command. I feel I must spare you the details-"

Lyanna tore her hands from his grasp and stepped back away from him. An invisible weight pressed on her chest, restricting her breaths to short, labored ones that pounded on her soul. Her speech was struck next. "You said... you said you would beg... in a letter, you said..."

"I tried, Lya."

Lyanna gazed into his face and suddenly felt him as a stranger. This was not who she should be with. She needed to be someplace else, with someone else... "Ned needs me," Lyanna whispered in a quavering voice, "Benjen needs me. I need to go north, I cannot stay, I-" She took long strides over to the wardrobe, where she dug around frantically for a pair of trousers, which she pulled on under her slip. The laces were tied clumsily and loosely as her fumbling fingers struggled to make good work of it. She shoved her feet into shoes, ready to make a run for it, when Rhaegar met her at the door.

"Lyanna, my love, you cannot go north. It is far too dangerous." He placed a hand on her shoulder, which she shrugged away gruffly.

"Do not try to stop me," she hissed between clenched teeth. "I will not stay here a second longer when my brothers are hurting. Not when it's my fault-" The words that left her lips suddenly struck her in the chest. _It's my fault. Brandon is dead. Father is dead. And it's my fault._ The room began to spin around her, and she pressed the heel of her palm to her head in an attempt to make it stop.

"It's not your fault, my love," Rhaegar's voice reassured her from what felt like a thousand miles away. "You've done nothing."

 _No,_ she wanted to say. _I've done everything, only it was for myself._

Lyanna slipped out of her shoes. She wasn't going. She couldn't go, and it was not because Rhaegar forbade it. She couldn't look upon Ned's solemn face and see the disappointment in his eyes. She couldn't imagine the hurt that would pervade Benjen's eyes, to hear the question he was sure to ask: _But why, Lya?_ It was too much to think about, and surely too much to bear.

She pushed past Rhaegar and ran down the stairs to the floor below, where she knew a spare bedroom was in place. Slipping through the door, she closed it behind her before pressing her back to it and sliding down to the floor.

Only then did the tragedy of her situation set in, and only then did she cry.

She spent many hours flitting between sobs and whispers that no one heard. Every breath she took was agonizing, every tear burned before it fell off her face. She had not known anguish so terrible or pain so stark; it felt as if a knife had been stuck in her heart and turned with each passing hour. With each twist her gasps grew heavier, the room swayed harder, and her head would pound, screaming _Why did you do it? Why, Lya?_ Eventually, her tears died down, and Lyanna found herself in the bed, resting her aching head on a pillow. Every inch of her hurt, she realized, and it was a phantom pain that could not be soothed. It only lingered, thrumming under her skin, never letting her forget.

"He was my brother," she had mumbled many a time, her words choked and thin. "He was my Brandon. I lost my Brandon." Her protector, her bane, her jester, her nuisance, her wild wolf with his boiling blood and contagious laugh.

If Brandon had been able to make her smile, then her father was the one who filled her with warmth. She thought of his kindly old face, how it was lined with wisdom, with pride, with humility. She thought of that long beard of his that she would bury her face in as a child, of his great embrace that she never grew tired of. His exasperated sigh, the way he would shake his head at her, how adamant he was in some things yet so lenient in others.

Then she thought of how she would never see any of that ever again. And so the knife would turn.

It was late afternoon when Rhaegar came to her. Though he sat far from her and spoke in the softest, most apologetic tones, his presence drove her to an unwarranted anger.

"If it had been in my hands, sweet Lya-"

"I don't care," She had hissed at him. She couldn't even look at him as she seethed. "I don't care what you would have done. They're gone now," It was the first time she had said it out loud. A pang hit her heart. "If I had never come with you they would still be here." They were biting words. Words borne of anger that he had been unfortunate enough to be the brunt of.

After some silence, he asked, "Do you wish you hadn't come?"

"Yes."

Once he left, sobs wracked her body once more. Lyanna wished she could take it all back.

Her tears left her thirsty and her pains, hungry, but Lyanna did not emerge from the bedroom for supper. A tray instead was brought to her, no doubt as per Rhaegar's request. She drank much water, but left her food largely untouched. Perhaps she had mistaked her longing for hunger, for now she wanted none of it.

Evening came, and Lyanna left the room to climb the stairs to the top of the tower. She stood before the bedroom door for many minutes, before turning the knob to open it. She did not step in. Rhaegar was sitting up in bed, reading by the light of a lantern. Upon seeing her in the doorway, he set his book down to look upon her.

"May I come in?" Lyanna asked in a small voice. 

"Of course. It is your bedroom." He had answered tenderly, no trace of hurt or anger in his voice.

Embolded by his forgiving tones and embarrassed by his unflinching kindess, Lyanna quickly climbed into his lap, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Tears came upon her once again, though this time she was not suffering alone.

"I'm sorry," she blubbered, over and over again. "I didn't mean that. That was a horrible thing to say."

"I'm sorry too," he murmured into her ear as he stroked her hair, rubbed her back, kissed her shoulder. Once she had stopped her crying, he urged her to rest her head and go to sleep. Though they shifted so that Lyanna could lay her head on his chest, the way she had grown accustomed to, sleep was the farthest thing from her mind. Memories that were once sweet now tasted bitter on her tongue.

"It hurts so much," Lyanna whimpered suddenly, taking a fistful of Rhaegar's shirt as she did so. His hand began to move up and down her back. "I feel lost, Rhaegar." Lost: the was the word she had been searching for since that morning. A part of Lyanna's soul was wandering inside her, searching for something, _someone_ to attach itself to. It's winding ghostly trail left only pain in its wake. Lyanna had felt this before, when her mother died 10 years back. But the agony she felt then was a shadow of what she felt now.

"You will always have your memories of them," Rhaegar said as his hand slid under the back of her slip to knead the aching skin there. Lyanna exhaled, her fingers relaxing, letting go of his shirt. _Yes, memories. No one can take that from me._ "Tell me one, Lya. A happy one." Lyanna blinked at his request; how could he ask her to think of anything but the sorrow that weighed on her heart? But, perhaps, that was the point.

After much thinking, Lyanna found one.

"Some years back, this lesser lord had come to visit Winterfell," she began tentatively, trying to recall the details. "He brought all four of his sons. I cannot remember their names, but I remember their faces well. The youngest was but seven, and the oldest was this nasty boy of six-and-ten. I was three-and-ten, I believe, and they had gathered my brothers up to come and play nice with them, but Brandon refused, insisting he was too old for children's games. Father had forbidden me from playing with them, saying that it was unseemly. I didn't listen to him, of course." Lyanna found herself smiling; how often she had disobeyed her father in that regard! Whenever he forbade her from something, it quickly became her heart's desire to do it. "Now the eldest boy swore by the Old Gods and the New that he was the greatest rider in the North- which was a lie, because I was." She heard Rhaegar chuckle, extracting from her a little giggle of her own. "I challenged him to a race, and he lost quite tragically."

Lyanna could still recall the look on his face; he had turned tomato red with rage and it was clear that his pride was damaged. Lyanna's brothers had cheered her quite heartily. Benjen clapped his hands for her and Ned murmured a 'good job' all while biting back a proud smile. Even a couple of the boy's brothers cheered her.

"So the boy grew quite angry at being bested by a girl, and had said, 'So the wolf-bitch can bite as well as she can bark! Can she suck as well as she can ride?' My temper flared and it took both Ben and Ned to hold me back from him. The boy laughed at this and said, 'Let her go, it's clear she wants to test it!'. When I told Brandon what he said to me, he flew into a rage and nearly hunted him down to 'crack open his thick skull' and teach him manners. It was Ned who convinced him otherwise; but Brandon had a plan." A twinge of sorrow plucked at her then. She wondered if Brandon had planned his doom. Something told her he did not.

"At supper, the boys sat with Ned and his friends, as they were closer in age. Brandon sat with a group of older boys, all rowdy and loud, but truly men. When Brandon called the boy over to his table, one could see the stars in his eyes, he was so excited. As soon as he sat down, however, Brandon grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him over to me. Father began to bellow at him, but he paid him no mind. Brandon took the boy and threw him at my feet, digging his boot in the frightened soul's back. He demanded the boy apologize to me, but no words left his trembling lips. So Brandon said, 'What? Has the wolf-bitch got your tongue? Or is it too busy licking someone's cock?' The boy apologized nearly a hundred times over before Brandon was satisfied. He let him go and he scampered off with tears in his eyes." Her brother had ruffled her hair then and threw her a knowing wink.

"Father was outraged. He demanded Brandon to apologize to the boy's lord father, which Brandon refused to do. So father had to apologize on his behalf, and all was forgiven. Oh, but father was so angry with us. He only shook his head at me for disobeying, but shouted at Brandon for doing what he did. Brandon had just shrugged and said, 'He disrespected Lya. He got less than he deserved.'" Lyanna paused her story then, her mirthful smile turning into a wistful one. "That was my Brandon," she whispered, blinking back tears. "He defended me more fiercely than anyone in this world. And that was father too, I suppose. He could have had Brandon punished for what he did; but father loved his children. He especially loved it when we looked out for each other." And they did a lot of that. Lyanna protected Benjen, Benjen supported Lyanna. Ned loved her, and she loved Ned. Brandon protected her, and Lyanna loved him for that.

Rhaegar's moving fingers on her back suddenly paused. She looked up at his beautiful face, which appeared to be in deep thought. "Do you understand what it's like to love a brother, Rhaegar?" She asked of him. He seemed to snap out of his reverie to look down at her.

"Not a blood brother, no," he admitted with an edge of sorrow. "Not like you." His long fingers snaked up her back to thread through her hair, a sensation that put Lyanna at ease. Her head was still pounding and her body still ached, but it all seemed less acute than before.

"I cannot imagine what my life would have been like without my brothers," she whispered, mostly to herself. "I love them, and they love me." Never did she think a brother's love for her would be his downfall. Never did she think it would ever come to this, for Brandon to be a cold corpse at three-and-twenty because he was fighting for her honor. She never wanted that.

But that was her Brandon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly made this a Rhaegar chapter, but I'm saving him for something special. I hope you liked this!


	24. Robert // For Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert muses about war, about Stoney Sept, about Lyanna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I predict this will end at around 32 chapters. Also, the description has been tweaked due to a change of plans. Enjoy :)

_The war began when Jon Arryn raised his banners in revolt_ , the history books will all say. _It was the first act of rebellion, from a man who refused to see his wards die, refused to accept tyranny any longer._ Perhaps that was true. 

_The Battle of Summerhall was the first outstanding victory for the rebel forces led by the fearless Robert Baratheon,_ The books will read. They will write of how his voice rang out across the field, how the weight of his hammer crashed into the hearts of many men, how he won handily, claimed his first victory. In songs, they will praise Robert, speak for his abilities as a commander, strength as a warrior, his virility in bed. Robert was told he was a hero: he was saving a kingdom from an unjust king, fighting for the good of the realm.

Perhaps that was what his men were fighting for, but certainly not Robert.

The books and songs will surely mention the rape and kidnapping of his betrothed, of how his closest friend's brother and father were brutally excecuted by the order of the king. _These events triggered the war against the crown._ But the books would never know the whole of it. They would never know that Robert whispered a woman's name each time he sent his hammer crashing down on a man's skull. None would write that while he had his women, that same name would grace his lips, that he wished it was her and not a common whore whose legs were wrapped around his waist. Not a single book would tell you that before every battle he envisioned a grey-eyed woman being raped by a silver-haired man, that that vision was what filled him with a lust for blood, that lended inhuman strength to his arm. None would know that he prayed not, fought not for a crown or for the death of a king, but for a woman.

Robert wished for no political gain; he wished for Lyanna.

The songs might have had a better idea of that; perhaps the bards and minstrels will sing of a man who loved a woman enough to start a war for her. To them, Robert would be a warrior of love, one of those rare men who would do anything to be able to hold his woman in his arms. Perhaps the jesters and fools would call it _The War of Robert's Cock_. Perhaps that was more accurate then what the friends of the crown had called it.

 _War of the Usurper_ , was the slimy term they coined. They saw him as a threat to the crown and to the royal family, as a man hungry for power. They likely drank to the health of their mad king after Ashford, after they heard how Robert withdrawed. _This is it!_ They might have cried. _It's over!_ As they laid seige to his city, to his brothers inside, they might have seen it as the end. But it was far from over.

They were all wrong. Robert was hungry for vengence, for a woman dishonored. Only death could end his desire. He wasn't going to stop until he saw Rhaegar's head on a pike- until _he_ put it there.

They weren't counting on the allies he had, on the resilience of his brother Stannis. They didn't know how deep the waters of his love ran. To them, he was a blustering fool who would die for his ambition. Robert let them think that.

His "ambition" had landed him in a brothel in Stoney Sept, where his every need was met. He had arrived in the city in a bad shape, having suffered an injury to his shoulder when a paid assassin tried to slice his arm clean off. The culprit was no more than a boy, really, with no hairs on his face or chest and a youthful glow to him. Robert had done well to kill him with his left arm, his weaker one if it could be called that. He nearly pitied the boy for being so stupid as to creep into his tent while his grand warhammer laid beside him. The only memory of the attack was a cry in the dark, _"For the king!"_ before a sharp pain blossomed in his shoulder. Robert woke with his hammer in his hand, and when he opened his eyes he had found it lodged in the lad's skull.

The sword did not go through, likely because his scrawny arms didn't possess the strength to do so. Still, after many salves and bandages, it smarted until he reached Stoney Sept where the practiced hands of many women eased the pain. In the mornings they cleaned his wound, planting little kisses over the scar that had begun to form, giggled whenever he let out a noise of discomfort. They fed him the most delicious foods, filled his cups with the sweetest wine, and served a side of cunt after he had his fill. Every night was a new woman, a new way to take her, a new trick turned. Robert had spared himself no indulgences. _Oh Robert,_ they would call to him, _Our hero!_

He had a woman on his lap feeding him strawberries, a foreign beauty with olive skin and bewitching topaz eyes, when one of his men came tumbling in through the doors of the brothel. He ran straight to Robert, giving a short bow, all while gasping for breath. Robert gave him a blank stare; he did not recognize the youth, but he wore the yellow and black of his house. The boy took quite some time regaining his breath before he finally spoke.

"My lord!" He cried out, now standing up straight with his arms at his side. "I have very important information for you."

"Out with it, then," Robert retorted gruffly, disliking this interruption. The girl shifted on his lap; he held onto her tighter.

"Jon Connington's army approaches," the boy blurted out, and as soon as the words left his lips, the sound of bells could be heard ringing out in the streets. "He is searching for you, my lord. He is not a mile away- I have been told to suggest that you and your men stay indoors."

Robert blanched. He hadn't expected Connington to arrive so quickly- but then, it had been a whole moon since Summerhall; he had meant to organize his men and arrange a plan of action, but he had forgotten himself amongst the wine and women. Only a small number of his men were actually in the building with him; the rest were still scattered around Stoney Sept. If Connington's men were to find him, he'd be good as dead.

 _Ned,_ Robert suddenly remembered his dear friend who was coming in from the North with Hoster Tully at his side. He had last caught word of him only a couple of days ago, but received no correspondence afterward. All seemed uncertain now. _Gods, where did my mind go?_ His eyes went to the exotic beauty on his lap, and he remembered.

Pushing her off, Robert got to his feet with a newfound zeal. He turned to his modest regiment of men in the room, all of their eyes nervously locked on him. "No one is to leave this building!" He called out in the strong voice he maintained for the battlefield. It was a voice meant for mobilizing armies, as it rang out loud and clear across vast expanses. Now it echoed off the stone walls ad reverberated in the ears of his men. "Get your armor, men, and suit up. If Connington's army comes knocking at this door, you will die fighting. If any of you surrender, I swear by the Old Gods and the New that I will climb up from my grave and geld you for it." He scanned his eyes across the room, careful to make sure that his gaze hit every one of his men. "Am I understood?"

"Yes, my lord!" Was the enthusiastic response of the men.

"Then prepare to fight!" Robert called out, and enthusiastic cheers erupted in the room. 

"Oh, Robert! Our hero!" The girls trilled.

"For Robert!" The men bellowed.

Satisfied, Robert turned back to the boy who had delivered the news. "Go up to the roof, lad. Lay low and report back to me if you see anything crop up. You'll be rewarded handsomely for it."

"Yes, my lord!" The boy answered, bowing low before scurrying up the stairs.

Robert's armor was brought to him by a gaggle of tittering women, but he refused to let them dress him in it. He had fooled around for a full month; now it was war, and like a jealous lover, war asked that his mind be focused on it and nothing else.

Once he had been suited in his armor and adorned with the yellow and black dressings of his house, Robert sat in a chair facing the door and he waited. His helm sat in his lap, the one he had specially made for him back in Storm's End- large metal antlers branched out from either side of the polished steel, and it held considerable weight. When he wore it, however, he felt it not. It was as if it were an extension of him, that with it he turned into a stag himself.

As he sat in anticipation, the bells outside were ringing, ringing, ringing, urging people to stay indoors. Each time they sounded, Robert would turn his warhammer over in his hand, counting the rings, _one, two, three, four..._

Each time the boy came back, he offered no good news; "The army advances, m'lord. They are nearing us now." Robert began to resent him for it, though he did indeed hear the army and how it only got closer. In the distance there would be a woman's cry, a child's wail, the sound of doors being kicked down, of men being dragged out, beaten.

They were less than a quarter of a mile away when Robert began to fill his head with thoughts of Lyanna. The pleasant, earthy smell of her tumbling dark curls, the sweet taste of her lips, the heat he felt just once between her legs, and vision after vision of those firey grey eyes. If he closed his eyes he could feel her hands running through his hair as she whispered _Robert, Robert..._

That was how the boy found him when he returned, eyes shut and brows furrowed. "My lord!" He cried out, pulling him out of his pleasant visions. Robert blinked at him, forgetting for an instant that he was in a dingy brothel in Stoney Sept and not in his homey tent at Harrenhal. "My lord, an army has come in from the north side!"

 _An army?_ A sense of panic ran through his veins. _Gods be good, does Connington have two?_ Robert was sure to die, then. He had considered himself lucky to be closer to than northern gate than the southern one that Connington's army had entered through. Now, it seemed, it was to be his bane. He gripped the hammer harder. Gathering his wits about him, Robert asked, "Is it Connington's army?"

"Nay, m'lord, I saw Stark and Tully banners. Direwolves and fish."

Robert was so glad he nearly threw his arms around the boy. Instead, he got to his feet, and turned to his men, who had been fidgeting and restless for the past few hours. Now, Robert aimed to relieve them. "My brother from the North comes to our aid!" He called out to the room of soldiers and whores, all while turning, turning the warhammer in his hand. "Prepare yourselves; we will send Jon Connington back to his king with his hands in his pants, searching for his cock!"

The room cheered. Bells rang. _Robert! Our hero!_

Once they heard the clash of swords outside of their doors, Robert donned his antlered helm and led his "army" outside and into the fray. "For Lyanna," he whispered to himself before swinging his hammer into the nearest soldier's chest, watching him fall as he gurgled blood. The streets were were filled with the sights and sounds of battle: a flash of steel, the clangor of metal, wails of men, blood staining faces, armor, the dirt ground. Bones cracked and womens' names could be heard, the last sounds before a man would succumb to death.

Jon Connington's army was not to be taken lightly; they fought back fiercely, having the advantage of manpower on their side. It wasn't until Robert striked down an important-looking man in black-and-red armor that the army staggered. Loyalist soldiers littered the ground, alleys, rooftops until the live ones turned to retreat. It wasn't long before they were driven out of the town, leaving behind only dead men, stragglers, blood, and their dust.

The men cheered their victory, throwing their helmets into the air. They called his name, Eddard's name, Hoster's name and swore to drink to their health. Robert looked around the scene; he saw men on rooftoops, swinging the black and yellow flags of his house, men stumbling out of alleyways with blood smattered on their grinning faces. It was a battle well won; Robert cheered as well, roaring with pride.

It was then that people began to take tentative steps outside of their homes, among them maesters to tend to the wounded and whores drawing in service. In the distance, Robert caught sight of Ned slinging a man's arm around his shoulders and supporting him on his feet. The man had auburn hair and beard to match, and as Robert advanced on them, he saw the fish filigreed on his breastplate and assumed it was Lord Hoster Tully.

"Ned!" Robert cried out to him with a large grin. His friend looked his way and smiled weakly before turning his attentions back to Lord Tully.

Once up close, Robert saw the lord pressing his hand over a bleeding wound in his side. His lifesblood stained his fingers, dripping off them and to join the other dark splatters on the ground.

"Oi!" Robert called out over the throngs of men. A few soldiers answered his call, standing rapt to attention before him. "Get Lord Tully to a bed and bring a maester to him immediately. Tear him off a dying soldier if you must, just get it done!" He commanded, and the men obeyed. As they pulled Lord Tully off Ned and onto them, Robert placed a hand on his shoulder. "I will come to you once you're better, my lord. Thank you." The Lord of Riverrun mustered a smile and a nod before he was carried off to be tended to.

Robert turned around and threw his arms around Ned, who returned his embrace with less zeal than he expected. He pulled away and held his shoulders, grinning madly. "You saved my sorry arse, Ned! I was getting ready to die in that bro-" Robert held his tongue; something told his that his honorable friend wouldn't appreciate where he'd been holed up for the past month.

Ned gave him a stare that gave away nothing, but it unnerved Robert all the same. "We need to talk, Robert," he announced gravely. Robert nodded, confused, before leading him into an inn at their right. He walked up to the innkeeper at the counter, an old woman with bright colors painted on her wrinkled face. She was chewing on some herb or another, making loud smacking sounds as she did so.

"The hero walks into my inn!" She tittered in a high voice, grinning to reveal yellowed teeth with bits of green stick between them. "What can I do you for?"

"We'd like a room," Ned answered, still looking as solemn as ever. The lady obliged, handing them a key. When Ned reached in his pocket to pull out a coin, the woman held up a hand.

"Room's free," she insisted, and Ned thanked her.

"Send some food and wine up, will you?" Robert asked of her with a grin.

"Anything for a hero," she returned, smacking her teeth.

Robert and Ned made their way up and into the room that had been given to them. Upon entering, Robert let out a loud groan, largely out of relief and partially to stall Ned's impending speech. He removed his great helm, setting it gingerly on the bed beside him. His armor suddenly felt very heavy on him now that he had been removed from the energy of battle, and he reached for the buckles of his breastplate and began strip off his armor, piece by piece, until it was in a heap of steel at the floor. "Gods be good, what a battle!" He called out before walking over to Ned, who stood by the door still clad in his armor. He clapped him on the back before slinging an arm around his shoulders. "The day is yours, my brother. Without you I'd be a rotting corpse." Ned opened his mouth as if he aimed to speak, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Robert opened it, and the smell of roasted meat filled the room. Food was wheeled in on a cart, along with bottles of wine and pints of beer. This was all set on the table in the center of the room before the procession exited, leaving Ned and Robert alone again.

Robert went to the table and picked up two pints of beer; one he handed to the silent Ned, while he raised the other in the air. "I drink to you, Ned!" He bellowed before pouring the drink down his throat. He removed it from his lips with a satisfied sigh.

Ned was not as content. "Robert, what happened on the road here? I was told you were injured." His friend did not raise the pint to his lips; instead, he set it down on the table, his eyes never leaving Robert.

"Aye, that I was. A boy tried to kill me in my bed, but his aim was poor." Robert pulled down the collar of his shirt to show him the scar on his shoulder. "Got lucky on that one, I did." That did not seem to relieve the tension in Ned's brow. Robert took another gulp of beer, bracing himself.

"When I arrived, I found your men scattered about the town. They seemed to have no formation, no plan- They were the first to die, Robert." Ned leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table. "Why is that? Did you not speak them once in the entire month you were here?" Irritation seeped into his sharp words.

 _Shit._ Robert hissed inwardly. He knew where this was going. "I didn't think that an army would come so soon," he replied dumbly. _Damn._

"You're in a midst of a war, and you didn't think an army would come after a whole moon of you hiding out?" Nes shook his head, disappointment and exasperation in his eyes.

"It won't happen again," Robert muttered, disgruntled. He felt like a child being chastised by his father- Robert hated it.

"What have you been doing for the past month, Robert?" His voice changed from disappointment to bearing an edge of anger. When Robert didn't answer, he continued. "I'll tell you what I've been doing. I prayed. Every night I kneeled, and I prayed for a quick end to this war. I prayed that Brandon and father have found peace. I prayed that Benjen was well in Winterfell, that he wasn't too lonely. I prayed that my betrothed, the women who was promised to my brother, would find it in her to like me." Robert bowed his head, shame-faced. He couldn't bear to look at Ned's solemn expression any longer. "I prayed that my sister will come back to me, alive, safe, near again. Do you remember my sister, Robert? Do you remember Lyanna?" 

Robert winced at her name. Sweet Lyanna, with her fierce spirit and piercing gaze. Yes, he remembered her. He never forgot her. He never could. It was her image that filled his mind when he felt death creep upon him, her name he murmured before the battle. "I prayed for her too, Ned." Robert asserted weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Did you do so before or after you bedded your whores?" Robert snapped his head up, looking upon Ned again. Anger lined his features: furrowed brows, a hard glare, a downturned mouth. His knuckles were white from gripping the table and his jaw was clenched.

"Ned, I-"

"You told me you were fighting this war for Lyanna!" He thundered. He slammed a hand down on the table, rattling the plates and cups there. "Imagine my surprise when I hear that Robert Baratheon, who I thought was laying his life down for my sister, was instead laying with women in a brothel in Stoney Sept."

Robert had the decency to feel embarrassed. It seemed Ned had the ability to humble him when no one else dared to do so. Now Robert, the fearsome stag, the hero, felt like a child caught with his hands in the pie. He deserved as much, though the shame he felt was perhaps worse than the act itself.

He heard Ned sigh, the rage dissipating as quickly as it had come upon him. "I am Lord of Winterfell now. Lyanna will be mine to give away. Perhaps... when this is all over... I might not have the power to forbid you from marrying her. But gods forgive me if I give her to a man who wears out a brothel instead of planning to save her."

Robert nodded meekly. He hadn't meant any of what he did as a slight- not to Ned, not to Lyanna. But it seemed too often that he forgot the North's honor, their pride. It was that quiet pride that Robert recalled witnessing in Harrenhal: those raised banners, their sitting together at supper, how they eached walked with heads held high- but not too high. Robert had lived with the North's quietest example of it for 12 years. Robert had fought the North's wildest example of it, pulled his warhammer on him, landed him on his back. Robert promised the North's wisest example of it that he'd protect his only daughter, from this day until his last. Robert had kissed the North's most spirited example of it, and had yet to forget her.

"I'm sorry," Robert found himself whispering, still ashamed.

Ned gave him a tight lipped smile and nodded. "I told her you were a good man, Robert. I told Lya that. Please don't prove me wrong." Robert mustered a nod that seemed to satisfy Ned. His friend clapped him on the back before pushing his pint toward him. Robert took an eager swig, the cool beer washing down the sour taste in his mouth.

"We are to ride out to Riverrun soon," Ned stated coolly, all the bitterness from before leaving his voice. "Jon will be there. He's to marry Lady Catelyn's sister- Lysa, her name is."

Robert raised his brows in surprise; he knew that Ned was to marry the Tully girl that his brother was promised to, but he hadn't known that Jon was marry her sister. "Jon is an old man; how old is the Tully girl?"

"Younger than Lady Catelyn," Ned said with a hint of pity in his voice. "But we need Lord Tully's forces on our side; and Lady Lysa, she is not a..." Ned hesitated, as if searching for the right word, "Not a maid."

Robert scoffed at that. "And that is why he is shunting her off to the first man who will agree to it?" Ned shrugged, unable to answer. "It matters little; Jon is a good man- the very best. Lord Tully ought to be thanking his gods that such a man is coming his way, not that his soiled daughter is finally getting married."

"I'm sure Lord Tully sees it that way too, Robert," Ned tried to assure his friend. "But that is not what matters now. We are to leave to Riverrun soon. There, we will converge: my army, Lord Tully's, Jon's, and yours. Then there will be a wedding- two at once, of course..."

As Ned chattered on about war plans, Robert's thoughts went to Lysa Tully. _Younger than Catelyn,_ he mused, taking in her situation. True, she was a girl without her maidenhead, but Jon was also an old man. The Tully girl was still just that: a girl. Lord Tully might be glad to push his daughter onto a man like Jon Arryn, but Robert felt sorry for the girl. Though Jon was good and brave in every way a man could be, he was aging and far from a maiden's fantasy.

The books won't remember that, though. The books will see an alliance being made, a necessary marriage, for they only saw the clear surface and not the hard complexities underneath. Robert preferred to see it that way too; Lysa Tully's happiness was not important to him. If it was a sacrifice that she were making, then it was going for a just cause.

 _This is war,_ Robert said inwardly. _The girl's unhappiness is one casuality amomg thousands._

The truth of the matter was that there was only one girl's happiness that mattered to him. The whole world may suffer before he saw her harmed- and she _had_ been harmed.

And thus, the world will suffer for it.


	25. Ned & Elia // Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people in two different situations reflect on war, on love, on children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for your support and feedback! You guys are the best :)

**Ned**

Though she smiled, Ned could see the disappointment in Catelyn's eyes upon first meeting her.

It didn't come as a surprise. It didn't even wound him. She had been promised to his brother, after all; Brandon, who was rougeishly handsome, who was tall and muscled like a maiden's fantasy, who was charismatic, who possessed an easy smile that melted womens' hearts. Catelyn might have expected Ned to be the same- after all, they were brothers, and only two years apart. But that was not the case; Ned's face was plainer, his build less impressive, he was just a smidge shorter, and he lacked all of the charms that Brandon had in abundance. Ned was all cautious northern sentiment, where Brandon was devil-may-care until the day he died. Ned was winter where Brandon was spring. The only thing Ned had bested him in was his sense of honor and duty- but women did not fall in love with that. He learned that lesson with Ashara.

When Ned and Catelyn swore their vows to each other, he saw that disapppointment in her eyes again. Ned did not blame her.

The wedding had been jubliant like most weddings were, but every once in a while the air grew heavy when everyone in the room seemed to remember that the man sitting beside his new wife was the wrong man, not the man it was supposed to be. When a rowdy group of men began to chant, _Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!_ Ned was quick to stop them. Some might have seen a groom protecting the honor of his bride, but in truth it was because Ned had no idea whether his stranger of a wife would wish for him to even touch her. He recalled how she had torn her hands away from his right after the vows had been said. He noticed how her gaze only settled on him when it had to. 

Ned did not wish to subject her to a humiliating experience where she might have felt obligated to lay with a man she knew nothing about. When they did descend to their marriage chambers however, she surprised him by pulling at the laces at the front of her gown. Ned had stared at her dumbly as the silks fell from her shoulders and onto the floor, unable to tear his gaze away. It was not until she raised her eyes to meet his that he quickly averted his stare, shame-faced.

"My lord," she called out to him, drawing his eyes back to her. "I hope I do not disappoint." The words sounded forced, but they fell on dumbfounded ears. Him, disappointed? Nay, he could never be, not even if she were hideous and disfigured would Ned have the right to be disappointed. But this was worse. His new bride was slender yet shapely, with a pair of perfectly round breasts tipped with pink nubs, a small waist, and hips well suited to motherhood. Her flesh was milk-white and unblemished, her eyes the most brilliant sapphires, her shiny hair the most striking auburn. She was the farthest thing from a disappointment. 

And she was not supposed to be his.

"You are beautiful, m-my lady," Ned stammered in a weak voice, lowering his gaze again. He cursed his inexperience now; the only women he ever talked to were his mother and sister, but they were family, not strangers. "You do not have to do that," He told her softly.

"It is your right, my lord," she returned. She took tentative steps toward him, and in a few seconds she stood before him. Her breasts were in full view now, and Ned's breath hitched in his throat. Perhaps sensing his hesitation, she placed one hand on his arm and the other flat against his chest. "I'm your wife now," she murmured in low voice. "It is my duty to please you, to bear your children." Her hand slid down his arm until it held his, where she guided it to her hip. Her touch was gentle, and her skin was soft, so soft.

Suddenly emboldened, Ned brought a quivering hand to the red hair that had been arranged on the top of her head. He found a pin, which he pulled, and down her hair went, tumbling around her shoulders, framing her pretty breasts and her prettier face. When he tilted her chin up to kiss her, her lips fell stiff on his until they relaxed and moved effortlessly with his, until it seemed that it was her and not him that was leading the kiss.

They had made love that night, and she bled. He left not a fortnight later to bleed himself.

Ned found war to be a strange thing. War was men throwing their lives down at the feet of their commanders and praying that he won't be the one that blunders. War was women, mothers and wives willingly allowing their boys, their men to leave with the possibility of never returning. Ned had fought against the idea of it back in the Vale, insisting that there must be a better way- but that was before Brandon was strangled and his father was burned. Now, war seemed a necessary thing. A sad thing, a terrible thing, but much needed, for now it was a matter of avenging and not just a prayer that a lost sibling would return to him by good will. He was willing to sacrifice honor then, and pride, and now he was fighting for both all while laying his head on the block.

Perhaps the only comfort in this could be found in his allies. He was commanding a large army of his own, having garnered much support from the North in reaction to their dead lords. By his side was Lord Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn with their respective armies, along with Robert's forces in the South. Robert had already won his first battle at Summerhall, he had been told, and marvelously so. Even his loss at Ashford was marvelous. He stood his ground until he was forced to withdraw while Stannis was currrently supporting the beseiged Storm's End. But it was their victory at Stoney Sept, The Battle of the Bells as it was now called, that truly impressed everyone, that earned the king's attentions. Now as they pressed onward, they seemed to constantly be in danger of attack. It was then, more than any other time, that Ned turned to his friends.

The one man who had never left his side over the course of the past few hectic moons was Howland, the little crannogman who was as brave as he was quiet. He was there when news struck of his brother's and father's fate, there when he wedded Catelyn Tully, there when he began his slow march to King's Landing. Howland didn't speak more than he had to, but when he did open his mouth not a single word was wasted. He swore that his people in the Neck would defend their lands fiercely and fight back anyone who tried to cross into the North. In battle he wielded both spear and sword and was always at Ned's back. Ned marveled at the small man's skills; what he lacked in raw strength he made up for in speed. He used his size to his advantage, ducking under swinging blades, turning on his heel quicker than an arrow before thrusting his weapon in a man's back. Ned treasured his quiet friend.

Also at his side was Ethan Glover, Brandon's squire who had been arrested along with his brother. He had been released on "the king's mercy", escaping the harrowing fates of the rest of the riders. He came to Ned with a zeal for battle, perhaps wishing to fight in Brandon's name, or maybe to bring down the king that had killed his friend and his lord. Ned trusted him, and Ethan trusted Ned.

But whenever he looked at Ethan, Ned would think of Brandon; namely, how it should be him and not Ned that ascended as Lord of Winterfell, how Brandon is a greater swordsman than he could ever be, that he would be a better-liked commander than himself. These thoughts often led to Catelyn, and he would see that disappointment flashing in her bright blue eyes again. _I am married to my brother's woman,_ Ned would tell himself. _Her heart still belongs to him._ He couldn't help but think how dashing Brandon would have looked in his wedding clothes, that he would be cleanshaven, that his eyes would sparkle and his smile would blind. Catelyn would smile too, only it would be genuine, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him, and perhaps a comely blush would bloom in her cheeks. They both would be beautiful, and happy, and there would be no talk of rights and disappointment when they entered their marriage bed.

But now it seemed that everything that had been entrusted to Brandon was now thrust onto Ned. Winterfell, Catelyn, leading the North into battle... and protecting Lyanna. He was always her big brother but now he was her only one, and while Ned had protected Lyanna from incidents in the past, his sister had always expected Brandon to be the one to jump to her aid.

He had done just that, and look where it landed him.

Ned prayed he would not meet the same fate, for it seemed that so much relied on him now. He prayed that he would live through to the end of the war so Benjen would not need to be burdened with Winterfell, so Lyanna could return to him, so that he could bring his brother's and father's bones home and say truly that he avenged them. Since their wedding, Catelyn had been added to these prayers, and he prayed that she was comfortable, happy, and that one day she may come to like him.

When news arrived that Catelyn was with child, Ned prayed for the unborn babe too.

The thought that he would have a child of his own had floored Ned. He had spent some time afterward quite shocked, though his surprise was mingled with an undercurrent of glee. Ned had walked around his tent, muttering to himself, "I'm to have a child, a babe of mine own..." and other times he would muse, "But just once... we had only... one time..." At the end of all his whispering and pacing, Ned broke out in smile. "A little babe of mine own..."

When he told Howland, the crannogman gave him a warm smile and a solemn congratulations. Jon Arryn had reacted with a knowing smile of his own and a prayer for his babe. Robert had reacted differently altogether. He had whooped and hollered and clapped Ned on the back before announcing it to his men and promising a party that evening. He kept his promise too, ordering the wine and beer to be brought out, and drank quite heavily, whereas Ned was too excited, and perhaps already too promised to responsibility, to drink. Still, he was merry and mirthful that evening, even when he was tasked with helping the inebriated Robert to his tent.

When he dropped the half-asleep Robert onto the bed, he had murmured, "My little Ned is to have a babe of his own..." Ned smiled at this. He was reaching for the tent flap to take his leave when Robert spoke up again, "We shoulda been 'specting a babe right 'bout now too... A little cos to your little babe..." He made a choking sound before drifting off to sleep.

 _Yes,_ Ned thought sadly, _Perhaps you should have._

How sweet Catelyn and Lyanna would look side-by-side, their bellies swollen with children, as they chattered and got along. How darling their beautiful babes would be, growing up together; perhaps if they were boys, they would be as close as Ned and Robert were themselves- as true brothers. Perhaps Ned's would be named Robert and Robert's would be named Eddard. Perhaps Catelyn would smile warmly at him, her eyes full of love, and Lyanna would find happiness in her Robert, and find that all of her tears were for naught.

But that was a dream that belonged to an age without strife, without worry, without war. _It still could happen._ Ned reminded himself. _Not now, but later._ For now it would be hard to smile, even harder to love, and every tear spilled was for good cause. Ned would have to fight for happiness before any would come to him.

Until then, Ned would worry for his little babe and pray that it would never have to learn the hardships of war at so young an age.

 _Let it be happy,_ he had wished that night and every night after that one. _The babe and its mother both._

Ned knew it would be a long time before he would see either of them as such.

\---

**Elia**

"Where is father, mother?"

Elia smiled sadly at her little Rhaenys. How often she asked that question, and how often it brought her pain. Each time she would reply,

"Father is fighting a war, child. He fights bravely." And Rhaenys would smile and return to her black cat, her little Balerion.

Somedays, Elia wished she could tell her the hard truth. _Your father lays with a she-wolf now, child. He brought three great knights with him to protect her. Look at what your father left us with! A mad king and an endless unhappiness._ But Elia did not wish to let her children think their father as anything other than brave and gallant. It was better for the whole of them to tell only part of the truth.

Ever since Rhaegar left, life at King's Landing only grew more difficult. She did not have Ashara, the only handmaiden whom she trusted and loved dearly. There was no Ser Arthur, who was good and true and understood the bond between Dornish-folk. There was no one left to protect her and her children, to bring her a peace of mind.

Somedays, she wished for Rhaegar. Though he had left her, shamed her, she knew he did not do it to harm her. _I'm sorry, dearest Elia, but it must be done,_ he had told her. _I take no pleasure from hurting you._ Elia often wondered if that were true. She imagined he found quite a lot of pleasure between the wolf-maid's thighs, having deprived himself of Elia's company in bed long ago. Still, his presence was missed; she longed to wrap her body around his, to press herself to his back and burrow her nose in his silvery locks. She missed the feeling of his long fingers intertwining with hers, his lips on her knuckles, his breath in her hair. She resented the northern girl for taking that from her, yet pitied her all the same.

After all, she was but a maid of seven-and-ten, dazzled by Rhaegar just as everyone else was. He was a prince, and what maiden did not long for one of her own? Perhaps the she-wolf thought herself to be happy, to be terribly in love with a sublime being that seemed to love her true. Yet Elia knew her husband well. She knew that he might convince himself that he was in love, that he would play the part of a man infatuated, and that it would all evaporate once the girl carried his child within her. His prophecy was the most precious thing to him; dear enough to pass over his wife, cast away his children, rob a man of his betrothed, and start a war over it. Elia knew this for fact.

How many years had he prattled in her ears about the prince who was promised, about smoke and salt, about the heads of a dragon? Since he was a child old enough to read, he had been enamoured. The girl would not change that. Nothing would change that. Elia knew her husband well.

But what is done is done. Now Elia was a tragic figure alone in King's Landing, a place that had always seemed foreign to her, that never felt like home. The king had done well to heighten that feeling; with his son gone, he turned his cruel attentions to her. At supper, he would openly insult her, blaming her for Rhaegar's leave, for not being able to bear children, and, worse still, fume that her children's blood was muddled, and that she had been the one to muddle it. _"Filthy Dornishwoman, dirtying my blood, and driving my treacherous son away."_ He would spit, bits of food flying out of his twisted mouth. _"I bet you and him both wanted this war. It is all a plan to overthrow me, isn't? Ha! You are all mistaken. You will all burn, and I will be all the greater in your ashes!"_ Elia would lower her eyes and stare at her food while he ranted. She would count the number of peas in her plate (42), measure how much room the meat portion would take up (roughly 2/5ths), and wonder at what spices were in the soup (Elia had yet to figure it out; the soup changed from day-to-day).

When he tired of raving about her, the king would turn to his complacent queen. _"If it weren't for my wife and her tarnished womb, Rhaegar would have married his sister and never needed to look elsewhere for a woman. His sister would be strong, able to bear him many children. Instead my wife brings me a useless son to match her useless self."_ Elia was always surprised by the Queen's coldness. It was as if she had learned to build a wall around her, that it was embedded in her skin that his words would slide off her like rain on a windowpane. The only time she saw emotion in those violet eyes was with her son, Viserys. The boy was all that she loved, all that was dear to her. She did not let the king's harsh words reach his ears. She protected him.

Usually, the king's ramblings all culminated in a vindictive tirade regarding Rhaegar. _"How dare he!_ he cried out once, slamming his gnarled fists on the table, rattling the dishes. _"How dare he take the wolf-bitch as his whore! I did not get my Joanna- why does he get this northern slut's cunt? Does he think himself better than me?_ His face turned crimson as rage radiated off him in waves. _"I made him! I am his king! He is my seed with my crown atop his head! I am the king!"_

Yet it astonished her how quickly his affections for his son would turn. Somedays he would cry that North ought to be honored to have their daughter raped by a dragon, that the Storm Lord should be begging his favor, not raising his warhammer. _"Is he not my son? Is he not the blood of the dragon? Insolent fools! They bite the hand that slips between their woman's thighs and honors them!"_

But Rhaegar was not there to hear this, and thus his words fell on unsettled ears.

Still, it seemed that at every turn, the king wished for Elia to pay the price. Each time he executed a person, he demanded Elia be present to see. He sent guards to her room to heckle her into coming, to shout through her door until she opened it to them. Though she first entered the throne room with her head held high, with her house words running through her head, nothing prepared her for the spectacle she was about to see. The first time was a farmer, a man hard on his luck, who had fished out of a private pond. Elia remembered how the man pleaded: "Please," he had cried. "I have two babes, just born, and my wife is weak. The harvest is poor. Twas only one fish m'lord, one small fish..."

The king had him burned. When Elia averted her gaze, the king screamed for her to watch. It mattered little; even when her eyes were not on him, she could not avoid hearing the man scream, smelling his flesh roast, feeling the heat of the flames waft toward her. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken._ she told herself to drown out her senses. When she felt tears sting her eyes, thought she could not bear watching his blackened flesh peel off his bones any longer, she would scream at herself internally. _Do not look away, Elia! You are unbowed. Show the king that you do not fear him. You are unbent. Raise your head higher, and do not weep! You are unbroken._

The king brought her again and again, and she did not refuse him. Each time she would stare unwaveringly at those burning men, telling herself that this could not break her. _Let him see the strength of a Martell's spirit!_ she told herself. _Let him know our greatness, our ferocity! We are unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Your fire and blood cannot change that._

It was not until she walked into the throne room and saw children in the center that he had truly jarred her. It was a girl, not ten years of age, with her hand holding a boy-child's. They both were dressed in ragged clothes that bore holes in the knees and elbows and were threadbare else where. Their faces were caked with dirt, with mud, with strife. Yet the girl stood so tall, her face was so brave, so young, that she glowed. Her hard eyes met the king's in a challenging stare while her younger brother burrowed in her side.

She was a strong one, truly. Elia never forgot her face.

Their crime was insignificant- a stolen sweetcake to fill their famished stomachs. "We 'aven't ate in a week, m'lord," the girl asserted in a clear voice. "I did not intend ta see m'brother starve." What a bold child! Presenting her case to the king himself with a steady voice and a straight back. She was an adult in a little girl's body.

But the king did not see her strong spirit. He sniggered at her words. "You do not want to see your brother starve?" He asked with a mocking lilt to his thin voice. "Then let me relieve you of the burden."

Then all at once, guards advanced upon the children, tearing the boy from his sister's grasp. The girl fought and screamed, kicking the men that held her, biting their armored hands. Elia saw a tooth fall out at this, staining the child's mouth with blood.

The boy could only cry and yell "Lissa! Lissa!" As they tied him to pole and prepared to burn his small body.

"No!" A voice cried out desperately, echoing throughout the room. It wasn't until she felt all eyes on her that Elia realized it was her cry. She turned to the king, her hands gripping the arms of the chair she sat in. "My lord, they are but children, you cannot burn children-"

"Do not tell me what I can or cannot do, woman!" He snarled at her, baring his rotted teeth. "You are speaking to your king!"

Elia could only shut her tear-filled eyes tight. She shouted in her head to drown out the piercing screamings of the boy and the devastating sobs of the girl. _Unbowed! Unbent! Unbroken!_ She imagined the sweet scent of Aegon's neck to keep from retching on the odor of burning flesh. The heat of the flames that radiated toward her became the Dorne sun, burning bright in the middle of the throne room.

When she opened her eyes and saw the girl's face frozen in grief, her lips dripping with her lifesblood, it became imprinted in her mind, like a blacksmith hammering his mark on hot steel. The guards let her go and she fell to the floor, her limbs limp. Her cheek was pressed to stone floor, those wide eyes that once appeared to be so clear, were now focused on nothing. She was alive, but the fight had left her.

Once they escorted the girl out (she had done nothing to resist, unlike the last time they grabbed her), a strange thought crept into Elia's mind. _Where is their mother?_ It was a question with no meaning; they were surely orphans, struggling to survive in Fleabottom, yet the question haunted her.

 _Their mother would have offered herself in her son's place- wouldn't she? Their mother would defend those children- how could she not?_ Elia heard the king dismissing her, yet she could not move from her place. Her nails dug into the arms of the chair, her limbs quaking, and her eyes were wide. "Motherless children are mournful, are they not, my lord?" She heard herself whisper aloud. "Mothers would keep their children from straying. They wouldn't wish to see them die."

"What are you prattling on about?" The king replied sharply; Elia felt his wild eyes bore holes into her.

 _A mother protects when the father cannot,_ Elia wanted to say. _Just as Rhaella protects your son. Just as I protect my children. She does not need you, and I do not need Rhaegar._

It would help, though. Fathers like Rhaegar are strong and able, where mothers like Elia were frail in body- yet she would die for her children all the same.

Elia was a Princess of Dorne. What she lacked in physical strength she made up for in wit. She could not wield poisoned daggers, a blade, a warhammer, or a mace. She would be useless in ruby-encrusted armor, in Valyrian chainmail, or in a great antlered helm. Her mind was her sharpest weapon and her words were her sturdiest armor.

Elia was glad to be a mother. It was the best she could do for her children.


	26. Rhaegar // Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You- you mean it? There is no doubt?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Rhaegar has always been the hardest for me to write, and I really wanted to get some details straight on this chapter. Even now I'll probably look back at it and hit myself for missing something. Thank you all for your lovely comments- enjoy! :)

Their bed had turned cold again.

Brandon and Rickard Stark's fates was largely to blame. It had left her in a miserable state, sapping her spirit in a way that was too potent for Rhaegar to heal. She was a pitiful sight to behold, but in truth, he did not share her grief. It was only a part of the price that had to be paid to bring a hero to the world- but that could not be said. He chose instead to be silent, to provide comfort when she needed it and nurse her back to life through solidarity. Even when he persuaded her to smile again, there were moments where an eerie silence fell upon her; Rhaegar would call her name to pull her back, and she would look upon him with eyes so cold, so distant, so loveless, that it was as if she were glancing upon a stranger. Then the warmth would return to her suddenly and all seemed well again.

But her eyes were the only things warm. Each night was largely the same: they would bathe, separate this time, get into nightclothes, and go to bed. Lyanna would either curl into his side, seeking comfort in close proximity, or turn her back to him, shunning him. No amount of coaxing words and tempting carresses changed this.

Some nights he heard her sob, quiet little tears that she might have thought he would not hear. _She is mourning,_ Rhaegar told himself. _It is only natural._ So Rhaegar did not mind these passionless nights.

But when news of the rebel victory at the Battle of the Bells reached their tower of stone, Rhaegar grew anxious. The Rebellion was fierce, more powerful and quicker than Rhaegar or anyone might have expected. Rhaegar had thought it would be years before anything transpired- yet in only a few moons they had accomplished much.

It had served as a jarring reminder, suddenly reviving the prophecy's importance. It nagged at him like it had done over one year ago, 6 years ago, his whole life. He yearned for that child of promise again, knew what had to be done to accomplish it: It required his seed to be quickened in Lyanna's womb. Yet sorrow still hung to her like a strong perfume, and it closed her womb to him. Rhaegar endured in silence.

Regardless, there was another matter raging outside of their wall of mountains that also required his attentions. When he had first told Lyanna of the war, of who was leading it, and the motives behind it, she had frowned and grumbled, "Robert is a fool."

"Your brother fights alongside him," he pointed out.

"Ned fights for father and Brandon. Robert fights for a lie of his own invention." She had strided about for some time afterward, fuming, until Rhaegar took her into his arms and shushed her with a kiss. Yet it was a chaste kiss, like most their kisses were nowadays, and it did not stir her into passion like he hoped it would.

"It is not your war, my sweet. Do not fret."

"Rape! Kidnapping!" Lyanna had exclaimed. "How did this come to be? Why did this happen?"

He could not answer this. Even Rhaegar wondered where along the line his actions became misinterpretated. Yet something told him that it didn't matter how it was said or who said it- his beloved's family loved her something fierce.

Later, when he told Lyanna of her brother's marriage to Catelyn Tully, she had smiled and sighed, "Oh, how _wonderful_. My Ned, married!"

Lyanna's visibly spirits rose after that announcement. It was a welcome change to all the talk of war, death, and strife that had reached their tower of stone. That night she crawled into bed beside him and pressed her bare breasts to his turned back. "I miss you," she had whispered, her lips planting kisses on the nape of his neck. "I want to be happy now." He had turned in her arms to push her onto her back, and it was then that their impassioned nights returned.

Yet not even this set Rhaegar at ease. He had wondered at why Lyanna hadn't fallen pregnant already, feared that it was something in her diet or, worse, if it was her womb itself. It was not a shortage of love, to be sure. Ever since she had allowed him inside her again, Rhaegar tried to fill every night with a fierce bedding- or two, if the both of them were not too tired. Still, she exhibited no external signs of a pregnancy, and Rhaegar felt the time slip by him.

It was not until one day that Rhaegar noted something different in her. She slept heavily that morning, not waking until well after breakfast. Rhaegar and the knights were well into training when Lyanna appeared, disheveled and dazed, and hardly able to lift her sword above her head.

When they took a recess, Rhaegar went over to her, where she was leaning on the fence and breathing heavily. He placed a hand on her back, startling her. She straightened quickly. "Lyanna, are you unwell?" He asked, worried. She had looked paler than usual, and her movements were notably labored and slow.

"No, I am not. I am feeling very well, thank you." She asserted in that proud way of hers. Still, Rhaegar saw the fatigue in her eyes and how her chest would rise and fall heavily and often.

"You do not seem very well to me," Rhaegar returned warily. He placed a hand on her forehead to check for fever, which she swatted away.

"I seem very well to myself," she insisted still. Then suddenly, her body betrayed her words and she shuddered as a shiver ran down her back.

"Go inside, Lyanna," Rhaegar said with all firmness, the tenderness leaving his voice to be replaced with a steely tone of command. "Take a bath, rest in bed. I will see you at supper and no sooner. You are not well."

She opened her mouth as if to argue, but closed it promptly, as if giving in (which Rhaegar found to be uncharacteristic of her pugnacious nature). She fled inside, and Rhaegar was put at ease again.

As promised, they supped together, where Lyanna fell oddly quiet. Usually, she would run her mouth and chatter for the whole of them, yet today was not the case. Rhaegar studied her, noted how she poked at her food, how her complexion was pallid, all color gone from her face. She did not look at him, not when he gave her shoulder a squeeze as greeting, not when he put his arm around her chair as he chatted lazily to his men, and not when he patted her thigh as a signal to head up.

Once in their bedroom, Rhaegar lingered before taking his bath, hoping to get a few words of explanation early, but with no luck. It was not until he was dried and dressed did she even glance his way. She simply sat in front of her vanity, aimlessly looking into the mirror, until Rhaegar placed his hands on her shoulder and kissed the top of her curly head.

"Are you angry with me?" He asked softly, not wishing to stir her emotions.

"No," was her brief response. Rhaegar remained behind her, rubbing her arms, unsure of what else to do. It suddenly seemed very coarse to reach for the laces of her gown and take her into bed, though he did not wish to lose a single day where they might conceive.

Lyanna stood abruptly, turning in his grasp to look up at him with wide grey eyes. A new determination filled the syllables of her speech when she began, "After I left you, I spoke with the kitchenmaids to have them prepare me something to restore my strength." Rhaegar looked at her quizzically, wordlessly urging her to continue. "They asked some things of me- womanly questions that I will not repeat to you. And a kitchenmaid did prepare me something- a draught of sorts, she called it, meant to help me with the weakness I felt earlier today." She paused here to take his hand. "She said it was a great help to a woman with child." She placed his hand over the flat of her stomach, and a fire filled Rhaegar's veins.

"You- You mean this? There is no doubt?" Rhaegar wetted his lips, a sudden bout of joy drying his mouth. _Is it true?_ He wanted to ask. _A son is within you? My prince, my child of prophecy- he lives in you?_ He held these back for a later time.

Lyanna was not quite as overjoyed. Mistaking his faltering for disappointment she pulled away from him with downturned lips. "You will not take this child from me," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Perhaps it is unseemly for a prince to have a bastard, but the child is mine own and I will see it live!"

Rhaegar blinked, then smiled. "You misunderstand me, my love. I am overjoyed to hear this." He closed the gap between them to pull her to his chest, where she looked up cautiously to meet his eye. "The child is mine own as well, and I too will see it live. Though you are mistaken; he is not a bastard, as you are my wife. Or have you forgotten?" He seemed free to jape, but inside his mind, something stirred. _I married you in that godswood so that this child would be trueborn. I would not return with a bastard. The prince that was promised is not meant to be a bastard while I live._

"Yes, but who knows that other than you, the knights, the horses, and myself?" She smiled, the tension that had built in her face before now breaking up.

"That is why I plan to wed you once again when this is all over." He kissed her beckoning red lips. "I also plan to bed you just as before, though perhaps I cannot be counted on to be as gentle as I was that first time." His voice was low and husky, hovering over her lips as he held her a little tighter. A blush bloomed in her pale cheeks, and she swatted at his shoulder in embarrassment.

"This news has made you bold," she muttered, abashed.

"This news has made me happy," he returned, kissing her again.

Perhaps it was in that moment that they were truly at their fairest, their happiest, their kindest. They had reached a climax in their lives together- it was the beginning of something new, something different. Rhaegar knew now that they would play this out until they peaked again- how or when, he did not know.

But when the future was both bright and bleak, one ran toward the light.

\---

Rhaegar had changes come quick to Lyanna's life. The training had ended, her diet was altered, and her wardrobe included more dresses than she would like. Rhaegar knew it angered her to be forbidden so many things at once- in fact, she was angered more often. She would try in her usual way to pick fights, eager to argue, and Rhaegar rebuffed her in his usual way of soft tones and kind words- this did not satisfy her as before, for it was often that she did not meet her goal. This went on for many days until it culminated in a fit of frustrated tears, which Rhaegar did his best to soothe.

_I've seen my wife carry two of my children,_ he wanted to tell her. _I know what must be done._ But he knew Lyanna did not like to be reminded of what he had left behind.

Eventually, she stopped begging and quitted her efforts to change his mind. Though she made her displeasure apparent, and often, she seemed to find joy in the prospect of motherhood. Some of that old familiar spirit returned to her, inflaming her as it did before, but now in her child's favor. Rhaegar was glad to see this; it meant she would fight for the child just as he would.

But in that top room with his lover, Rhaegar did not fight; the prince in her belly became the center of his world. Each night he kissed her middle, which did not begin swell until her fouth moon. Even then it was just a mere bump, but he kissed it, rubbed it, sang to it all the same. Lyanna would run her fingers through his hair, whisper that she loved him, she loved him so much, that she would love the child just as much. Rhaegar wondered if she was aware that she glowed; her porcelain skin was entirely radiant, her cheeks holding a flush of color that reflected the life growing within her. And what a life! It would be one for the ages, the history books, and the songs- or rather, just one song.

This evening was a particularly cool one, as they had opened the windows to let the chilly night air roll through. Rhaegar's hand covered Lyanna's on her belly; his arm was around her shoulders as she burrowed in his side. Her voice was already dusted with the beginnings of sleep when she whispered,

"The babe grows stronger with each day. I feel its breaths within me now, just as clearly as I feel my own." She craned her neck up to look at him; he felt warm under her gaze. "Can't you feel it too, my love?" Her fingers laced over his, dragging the tips of his fingers down and guiding his touch over the hump of her belly to the underside.

"I feel it," he answered. And truly, he did. It felt as if shocks ran down his fingers to the tips of his toes in time to a child's steady breathing. "He will be strong, like his mother." Rhaegar met her eyes, which looked upon him without wavering. There was a strength in her gaze that was almost challenging; it was as if she were daring him to look to her, to never stop looking at her. Some men might have felt embarrassed or even angry to be looked upon so unabashed. Yet Rhaegar never could avert his gaze, for in those steely grey eyes of hers he saw the eyes of his son, and he only prayed they would be so bold.

"He?" She chuckled, catching his slip. "It may very well be a girl. A she-wolf like her mother. Or perhaps a dragon-rider like the Visenya and Rhaenys of your line." Rhaegar smiled at this; he had often likened Lyanna to Visenya through her strength, and to Rhaenys through her beauty. _As fierce as Visenya, as lovely as Rhaenys._ Yet the child within her was not to be either. He would be as strong as Aegon the Conqueror, as wise as Baelor the Blessed, and be fashioned in Azor Ahai's image.

Rhaegar pressed his fingers into the skin of her belly, as if testing that strength. The child was there and the child was theirs. A prince that was promised. A warrior, a ruler, a legend- and his mother didn't have a clue. She saw him for what he was now, a child within her; perhaps it was time she saw him for what he would become.

"It is to be a boy, Lyanna," he said with all certainty, his eyes still focused on hers. They lit up now, a mischevious glint to them. She did not believe him.

"How could you know such a thing? I am the mother and I do not know. One can only guess and wonder." She lowered her gaze down to her belly, to the fingers on her skin. "Now I know you've been inside me, Rhaegar, but not-"

"It is a boy," he insisted with more force in his words. This pulled her eyes back to his again; her brows furrowed, slanting those round orbs. _She must know now. The truth about her, about our son._ When she had been a winter maiden dancing in his dreams, she had known. _Our son. Your prince,_ she had whispered before the ice melted around her. Rhaegar knew he could not leave her in the dark any longer.

He sat up, removing himself from her. A new energy thrummed under his skin, urging him to speak openly, wantonly, to finally make her the wife that he could confess to honestly. "A thousand years ago, it was writ that a prince would come to our land and rid it of darkness; he would be a Bringer of Light, wielding a sword of fire that could cut through the blackest voids. It was learned that this prophecy would be fulfilled by a male of the Targaryen line." Lyanna looked at him inquisitively propped up on her forearm with a hand still resting on her slight swell of a belly. She did not speak; he continued. "When I was a child, all I ever did was read. I did not glance a sword, never dreamt of taking up a shield." He recalled the soldiers' japes: _Baelor the Blessed come again, that boy is! Lover of a thousand books, but never a woman._ But Rhaegar did not care. Between a mad father and cruel soldiers, he learned early not to care. "One day, I came upon a grand book, a dusty one that wrote of the prophecy- the prince who was promised, it said. I was sure it was me. I swore the signs were present during my birth, and I took up a sword and dressed in armor and became a warrior. But I was wrong; it was not me." How much simpler things would be if he were! The land would be bright, scrubbed clean of any hint of darkness, and he would be king. But fate did not see it as such.

"What does that have to do with our child?" Lyanna asked, frowning. She struck Rhaegar as looking very dissatisfied, perhaps a bit apprehensive. A kiss would relieve the tension in her brow and stir up a smile; but Rhaegar did not think of kisses now. No, the passion that filled him now was one of mind, not of body.

"Before I answer, do you understand, Lyanna? Do you understand what the prophecy entails?" He licked his lips, anticipating an answer in the positive.

Lyanna continued frowning.

"Very well, then," Rhaegar said with a twinge of disappointment. "I will continue. When Elia fell pregnant with child for the first time, the prophecy stirred again within me. I wrote every scholar in the land, asked them to speculate if it was a boy or girl within her. I prayed it was a boy; but a girl was born- not the prince, but a sweet princess all the same-"

"Please do not speak of them to me," Lyanna interrupted harshly. Her frown dissolved into a thin, hard line, and her eyes glossed over cold like ice on a pond. He had displeased her, yet it did not seem to matter now.

Rhaegar nodded mindlessly. "After Aegon was born, who I swore was the child of prophecy, I began to dream of a woman- closer to a child, really, just barely a woman. She walked barefoot in the snow as winter winds danced around her, kissing her pink cheeks and blowing her hair about her," His voice was warm as he mulled over the recollection. He had fallen so fast for that mystery woman, chased her for so long, and found her in a forest at Harrenhal in trousers with leaves instead of snow in her hair. "That woman was you, Lyanna."

He pushed a curl away from her fair face, as he had a thousand times before to her apparation. She parted her lips as if to speak, but closed it again, silently urging him to continue.

"I met you first in a dream and then in flesh at Harrenhal- and I knew it, I knew you were the one. I knew I was wrong about Aegon as I had been wrong about myself. I had a vision of you carrying our child as you do now. You knew what he was, Lyanna, what he was going to be. Do you know now?"

_Say yes,_ he wanted to urge her. _Believe in his destiny as I do, as you did in my dreams._

She only stared. Rhaegar reached out to touch her brow; she moved, pulling away. "I do not understand," she whispered, her voice holding confused lilt. "What does a prophecy have to be do with me? And with our child?"

Rhaegar blinked at her. _Perhaps I haven't made it clear._ Lyanna was not exceedingly bright, but drowsiness dulled her wits further. "There will be a prophesized prince to rid the land of darkness. The child within you is that prince. You are the mother of a legend, Lyanna." He couldn't say it any simpler.

Rhaegar reached out to touch her face again, and she did not pull away. He ran his thumb over the smooth of her brow as he studied her face, expecting it to light up. Yet her gaze did not turn tender- it did soften, but there was still a hardness in her eyes.

"Then you... You had planned this?" She prompted tentatively. Her hand stroked the swell of her stomach once. Rhaegar's gaze was fixed on that little hand gliding over that little bump. Rhaegar wondered if she now felt as he did when he touched her small mound of a belly, if she sensed the energy inside, marveled at its potential.

"Yes," he breathed in response, his own emotions clutching at his throat. Rhaegar expected her to speak the same. Yet all she muttered was:

"Oh."

Though her understanding did not seem explicit, the burden from his shoulders had been lifted and now Lyanna knew what he knew. Perhaps it was that transfer or just how lovely and bright Lyanna looked beside him that alighted his loins, but desire struck him. Succumbing to it, Rhaegar opened her nightgown to press kisses to her breasts, down her middle, to his son, to feel him, breathe his own life into him. Her hands did not run through his hair as they usually did; in fact, she simply lied there as Rhaegar held her hips and kissed her up and down. "You are so much," he whispered to the unborn child before him. "You are everything."

He fell asleep with his head on Lyanna's breast, listening to her heartbeat and imagining it was his son's.


	27. Lyanna // Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She said_  
>  "Every night he will break your heart"  
> I should have known from the first  
> I'd be the broken hearted
> 
>  
> 
> _I loved you from the start_  
>  Save us  
> And not all the prayers in the world  
> Could save us
> 
>  
> 
> \--Storms, Fleetwood Mac

Confusion clouded Lyanna's senses.

When Rhaegar kissed her, the usual flame that scorched her skin was not blazing. When he placed his hand at the small of her back, drew her to him, stroked her swollen stomach, she did not prickle at his touch. It seemed whenever he was near, he brought with him the talk from that night: _"You had planned this?"_ Sleep eluded her in the bed she shared with him, as she was kept awake with questions that had unsavory answers.

To think that she had been so glad, so terribly happy for the past four moons! True, she had at first begrudgingly accepted the changes in her daily routine, just as she wondered at the changes in her own body. Mornings spent bent over a chamber pot with Rhaegar behind her, holding back her hair and rubbing her back, stomach stretched enough to rest a hand on, breasts growing in size and tenderness, every inch of her increasing in sensitivity. It was strange, but not wholly unpleasant, for it was also an adventure, with something new cropping up at every corner. She had no handmaidens to inform her as she did before; only middle-aged kitchenmaids who were strangers to her. So Lyanna learned on her own.

Yet all of this was welcomed, as it brought her unspeakable joy. The child within her had given the last tug out of mourning, turned her cheek to the past to focus on the future- _their_ future.

But the present was what perturbed her. The man beside her suddenly seemed a stranger, that silver prince she had run away for. His words sounded foreign, honeyed even.

It seemed that since that night, every conversation shared pertained to that strange and ancient prophecy. He spoke so passionately of the child resting within her, swore so much by it. On one hand, it was wonderful to see how his eyes turned bright, how he marveled at their son; on the other hand, it left her befuddled, lost, wary. She could not share in his fervor- for what she felt grow in her belly was not what he saw. _"You had planned all this?"--  
"Yes."_

Troubles weighed heavy on her mind.

When they went to bed one evening, where he pulled her into his lap, pressed kisses to her temple, Lyanna pushed herself away from him. He reacted by only looking at her with those mysterious indigo eyes that gave away nothing, that showed no emotion other than a still calm.

"Rhaegar?" She asked tentatively, testing his name on her tongue.

"Yes, Lyanna?" He returned, politely placing his hands in his lap. He turned his body towards her, markedly giving his full attention.

"Do you love me?" He blinked at her inquiry- it was a odd question, truly, one that she had never had to ask. It was always assumed.

"Of course I do, my sweet," he assured her in that tender, poetic lilt of his. 

"How much?" She pressed on.

"My love for you is as constant as the stars' love for their moon," he began in that voice that gilded every word, made everything sound beautiful and ethereal. "I love you greater than Bittersteel and Blackraven loved their Seastar. You are dearer to me than I am to myself." Had Lyanna been in a lighter mood, she might have closed her eyes and laid her head in his lap as he spoke and spoke. Now, disconcertation pushed such urges out of mind. 

"Then you would not lie to me?" She reached a hand out to stroke his cheek, which he accepted with a kiss.

"Never," he breathed, nodding his head to be duly assuring.

Mustering up the whole of her courage, Lyanna asked, "Then tell me: how many men have died thus far? In this war?" 

Rhaegar only stared at her, his mouth forming a hard line. He did not speak; he only looked.

"Thousands?"

No reply.

"Tens of thousands?"

Still, nothing. Lyanna pulled her hand away quickly, as if she had been burned. Unbidden tears pricked her eyes as frustration flushed her cheeks. "Why won't you answer me?" She prompted through clenched teeth.

"It is none of your concern, Lyanna-"

"None of my concern!" Lyanna cried incredulously. A white-hot rage filled her veins at being denied. That was all Rhaegar had done recently- deny, forbid, shush, and she had grown sick of it. "My brother fights in this war! All of this, Brandon, father, all this death, is because of us, Rhaegar, because of _me_ -" Lyanna broke off, stunning herself into silence. _Because of me,_ she repeated listlessly. "Oh, gods," she heard herself whisper. "Oh, gods forgive me." She pulled her knees as far as she could to her chest before burying her face in her knees. Angry tears spilled onto the thin nightgown, drenching the skin underneath.

When she blamed herself for Brandon's and father's deaths Rhaegar had been at her side, assuring her that it was not her fault, not her fault, that it was his father's orders that sent them to their graves, not her actions. And she had, in her vulnerability, believed him. Yet now it was not the same; a sense of guilt pressed on her chest, wracked her mind, pained her entirely.

Rhaegar placed a hand on her back. At his touch, Lyanna pulled away, turning her body towards him as little fists balled up her nightgown. "Don't touch me!" She warned loudly, her voice filling the round room. Still, his looked at her so coolly, so _detatched_ that it infuriated her further.

"Lyanna, do not behave so," he murmured calmly, reaching a hand out to the space between them. "You are with child now, you cannot allow your emotions to run high." Lyanna glared at his hand as if it were the Stranger's himself, luring her to an early grave. "Our love is worth the price- is it not? When we leave this tower, me as king and you as my queen, we will be happy. Strife will not reach us any longer. We will be wed, share the same bed for as long as life allows us, love each other til death do us part," Her silver prince had a silver tongue to match; Lyanna allowed herself to be lulled by his words. "Come, now," he beckoned, opening his arms. "You are weary. The child's spirit is strong and it troubles you."

At the mention of the growing babe, Lyanna's hand flew instinctively to her stomach. _No,_ her thoughts came clearly now, breaking through the warm haze Rhaegar had placed over them. _It is mine own spirit that troubles me._ Clenching her jaw, Lyanna pinned Rhaegar with a cold look. "I cannot live as blindly as I have so far. Men die every day for what we've done- you cannot deny that. You cannot ignore it." It was a sweet bliss she had been swimming in for so long; the moons had flown right by her as time had been measured by kisses, carresses, soft words, and warm embraces. Reality was much harsher.

"It was unavoidable," Rhaegar insisted firmly, in tone that was meant to subdue her. "It had been only a matter of time until war arrived. Our love, your coming away with me had only hastened it. It was a price I was willing to pay-"

"And one I was not!" Her head swam with conflicting thoughts, with sparring emotions. His arms looked so strong, his lap so comforting, and he beckoned to her with those fairytale eyes- yet Lyanna could not succumb. Other feelings prevailed: anger, confusion, and doubt filled every corner of her mind. A silence pervaded the room, the two locking eyes with a palpatable tension between them. "How can you tell me that this is all worth it? My brother and father are dead because of me. This war is being fought over me." her words came out strained, as if it took effort to bring herself to speak.

"What we are doing..." Rhaegar began softly, evenly. "What we have _done_ is worth a thousand wars. The boy within you will save this land, and those mothers, those wives and daughters will mourn their men no longer. The prophecy-"

"I do not want to hear about your prophecy," she hissed with a sharp harshness, narrowing her eyes. The she-wolf within her was stirring, snarling, scratching at the walls of her chest. "I did not come here because of your prophecy. I came because I love you." _So much,_ she wanted to add. _So much it pains me to think of it._

"And I love you, Lyanna." His gaze softened, warming her skin and forcing her to hesitate. "I did not anticipate that I would, but I did. I do." His fingertips brushed the hem of her dress, impelling Lyanna to inch forward. Soon enough, she sat before him, knees touching, close enough to feel his breath tickle her nose. Her hands rested on his hard thighs, and Lyanna knew she could easily beg for him to forget her harsh words, to have him comfort and carress her for the rest of the night. All she needed to do was mutter an apology, throw her arms around his neck, presses kisses to his jaw... _No, Lyanna,_ a voice called in her head. _Do not bend. Learn the truth. Learn it now._ She pulled away, her hands slipping from his legs to her belly, placing space between them once more.

"Tell me, Rhaegar," she urged in a firm voice, her words carrying a threatening undercurrent. "Did you love me for me or what I would bring you? Would you have glanced my way if it weren't for your dreams?" He only parted his lips briefly before closing them again. "What if I am not the one? What if you were wrong, and you've wasted your time on me while another maiden awaits you? Would you love me still? Would you stay by my side, forget your old book?" Every bit of her screamed for him to say yes, to proclaim that his love for her outshined his need for his promised prince. She wanted him to say something poetic, floridly intertwining lovely words in the way that only he knew how.

"I love you, Lyanna," was all that left his lips (chiseled lips that looked they belonged on the statue of a handsome youth, lips that she had admired back in Harrenhal, and lips she's kissed a thousand times since- she couldn't bear to look at them).

"Did you ever intend to love me?" She asked with a quivering lip that brought a tremble to her voice. "Or was I always just a part of your plan?" 

"I love you now, Lyanna," he insisted softly, still evading her inquiries.

"More than your prophecy?" She searched his still eyes for an answer. "Do not lie to me anymore. I beg you, tell me true." Tears threatened to spill again as the silence began. _Tell me that I am the most important thing in the world to you. Tell me that the prophecy is just red dust, that I am your mountain. Tell me you've never needed anything as much as you needed me._ Her throat tightened, her head grew light, her mouth turned dry, and then--

Silence.

A pain arose in her chest, sharp and sudden. She had always known there was a mystery to Rhaegar, a sense of the unknown that had thrilled her. She thought it would be an adventure to seek out those complexities, to learn them, understand them. _You aren't simple like Robert is,_ she had written him once, many many moons ago. _I think of you and I see only parts of you. I think of us together and I see a great unknown. Nothing about you is clear. Everything is exciting._ It seemed now that instead of excitement, she should have been wary (Ned would have told her as much, to step back, be cautious, think it over. Lyanna would have liked to see him now). But caution required a patience that she did not possess.

And she was ruined for it.

"I suppose it takes more than just a woman to turn the great Rhaegar Targaryen from his honor," she whispered in a voice that hardly sounded like her own. "To shame his wife twice, forget his children, start a war." The image of Elia's lovely face swam up to the front of her mind. She still recalled so clearly that sad smile she bore when Rhaegar passed her over, the pain that swirled in her unblinking eyes, and the grace she held her head up high with. She remember how sweetly Rhaegar played with the daughter in his lap, how he made her giggle, how he smiled brilliantly down at her. He had given that up, and Lyanna was fool enough to think that it was all for her. "And now he will return to King's Landing with the people singing his praises while they curse the wolf-bitch who stole him away." Tears turned her voice thick. Each word that tumbled out of her mouth was a wound to her heart, each syllable bringing with it the keenest pain Lyanna had ever known.

The hand he placed on her cheek only heightened that hurt. To lean into his touch now, when she needed comfort most was all she wanted. To cast away what she had learned into the wind, to fall into that magical ignorance again where it was only her and Rhaegar and their love. It was too clear now; those mysteries were explained, his priorities bared. They couldn't be the same again.

"But you will return with me," Rhaegar's hopeful voice returned. "And we will wed, we will love each other, and we will have our son." His other hand found purchase at the peak of her swollen middle. His touch stung.

"No," Lyanna said in a broken voice, paired with a shake of her head. "No," she repeated, her strength returning, the she-wolf beginning to thrash again. "I will not return with you. I want to go home. I want to go North." To Ned, To Benjen, to Winterfell, where she could throw herself on the floor of the crypts and beg forgiveness from the brother who died for her and the father that died for him.

"We will visit the North together, perhaps right after the marriage-"

Lyanna pulled away from his touches now, as they seared her straight to the soul. Together? There was no together. Lyanna aimed to go alone. "I will not wed you, Rhaegar, nor will I ever step foot outside of the North for as long as I live. I will raise the child myself, unmarried and on my own-"

"You will return with me, Lyanna," He insisted forcefully, his eyes flashing in a way that Lyanna had never seen before. "Nevermind the second wedding, then. I will simply announce that it has been done already-"

"Yes!" She cried, her feet finding the cold stone floor, where she stood with her head raised proud. "Take me as a second wife! Shame Elia a third time, so I can shame mine own house after!" The thought of being dragged to King's Landing to be bound to man who loved her less than a thousand year old promise boiled her blood. Why had she come with him to Dorne if not for freedom? Yes, she had loved him, worshipped him, but he had also lifted the latch to her cage and beckoned for her to come out. And come out she did, in leaps and bounds, taking strides longer than the length of her body, only to be ushered into larger cage, one with stone walls inside of metal bars. She loved having a choice almost as much as she loved the man who allowed her one- almost.

But now that man had pinned her with a hard look, with the slightest distasteful twitch on his mouth. He was being denied, and Rhaegar was not one used to that. Though he had seen her at her angriest, at her loudest, her most passionate, Lyanna was a good wife in the sense that she knew what her husband desired, and rarely left him wanting.

"I will not be holed up in this tower a day longer, Rhaegar," she asserted in a trembling voice, trying her damnedest to hold his gaze. "I am going back home. I will end this war myself if you will not."

"And our son?" Rhaegar returned, his voice carrying an edge of impatience. "You will not run off with him. He is our prince-"

" _Your_ prince," she cut in, scathing. "He is our son, but only your prince. And I will raise him in the North until he chooses his own fate, and not one that had been ordained for him by scholars who have been dead for a hundred winters." Venom dripped off every word, and it was only then did she realize that she had crossed her arms around tight around her stomach. Like a she-wolf, Lyanna protected her kin- particularly the ones born from her own womb.

"He will be raised in King's Landing, as is fitting of a prince, and you will come with me as my wife," he insisted still, not stirring from his place on the bed, only staring at her, just staring. "This tower, this war, your pregnancy is muddling your mind, Lyanna. Come tomorrow morning you will realize that there is no other way. Our love can endure this; you need only to wait a little longer..." He got to his feet and took slight steps toward her. He might have meant to gather her in his arms to bring her to bed or perhaps only wished to stroke her cheek, but Lyanna did not give him the chance. She turned on her heel and bolted down the stairs, biting back tears all the while.

The door to the tower was soon in sight. She headed straight for it, placed her hand on the latch, before she found herself leaning on it, panting madly, struggling to regain her breath. The wooden door swayed haphazardly before her, bending in ways that were impossible, surreal. Her hand slipped from the metal lock to her stomach, where it laid protectively. She heard footsteps advancing behind her; Lyanna did not need to turn to see who it was.

Arms wrapped around her, pressing her close to his body. His nose was in her neck, a light kiss was put to her shoulder- he was warm and inviting.

Lyanna thought she might retch.

"Come now, Lyanna. Do not be foolish," he murmured in a low voice that might have drove her mad with desire not ten minutes ago. "Lay your head down, close your eyes- sleep. You are tired."

Mechanically, Lyanna turned in his arms. Their eyes met, noses brushed, lips parted.

"Do not touch me again," she whispered without a hitch.

Rhaegar hesitated, but he let her go. She walked up those winding stairs to the spare room on the floor below theirs, slipped through the door and laid on her bed as rage and guilt ate at her til she could no longer open her eyes.

\---

She let Rhaegar into her room after the second week.

Lyanna couldn't recall being alone for so long. Her days were empty, the nights cold, and the time in between slumbers were bitter- yet not a single moment was spent crying. Yes, the hours seemed endless when they were not filled with smiles, with laughter, with knowing looks and warm lips, but Lyanna could not bring herself to pass the time time with tears. Her son was watching; he was too little to see his mother cry.

But it was not only the child within her that kept her eyes dry. Though the agony was real, persistent, ruthless, a voice in her head kept whispering _You should have known. It was always too good to be true, child._

A child! Yes, that's what she _was_ , but now it was an excuse for the past. She could no longer insist to her brothers (of which she was missing one) that she knew not what women knew, for she had known love, intimacy, pregnancy, moon's blood, the female form, a man's form, and now, heartbreak.

 

He had tried to gain entry before. Sweet words were murmured through the door, and her name was called, clear and musical. Somedays he was insistent, nearly scolding. _Enough, Lyanna. It need not be like this. Come back to me, let us start anew._ Other days he pleaded so sadly, so honestly, that it was as if he was no more than a puppy scratching at her door. _Please, Lya, come out. Let me see your face again. I love you, truly I do._ It was more than once that she found herself with her hand on the doorknob, just a turn away from inviting him back into her heart. But then she felt the child within her, and that hand would slip down to stroke him instead.

It was for the babe that she tried to run. She had packed her breakfast and supper in a canvas bag, drank two glasses of the draught for strength, and slipped out of her room in the dead of night with not a lantern to guide her. The cool mountain air nipped at her face once she stepped outside, and Lyanna paused to close her eyes, to remember home again. It energized her; unlike the other night, she did not feel weary or weak. She took large steps towards the stables, toward the horses, toward her way out, toward Ser Gerold Hightower who stood watch.

How she pleaded! She begged til she fell to her knees, urged him to let her go home, that she missed it terribly, that she would do anything- _anything_ to return. He had looked down upon her with a pitying look before stating flatly,

"It is the prince's orders, your grace."

The mention of Rhaegar stirred her to anger. "I am not speaking to you as your grace," she had growled in response. But her voice softened quickly after. "I am speaking to you as Lyanna. We are friends, are we not? You told him I was charming. You said I had a good sword-arm. You are sworn to protect me- protect me now, from him, from unhappiness." She had thought she saw empathy in her dark eyes when he stood before her, looming over her in that brilliant white armor like a tower of snow.

"I will protect you, my lady," he promised in a strong voice. Lyanna's heartbeat ran faster. "From everyone who is not him." Then he leaned down to help her to her feet, bowed once, and escorted her back to her room.

That had been a week ago. Rhaegar did not mention it once, not the day after and not today, when he spoke with both kindness and urgency through her door. "I must speak with you," he said. "It is about the war."

The war meant the outside world, where Ned avenged and Benjen waited, and Lyanna had let him in for that. It had been 13 days seen she had last seen his face, though it seemed like years (everything did when you measured time by the sound of your own heartbeat). He did not smile or touch or even look. He stood by her door, kept his distance, and spoke:

"I leave tomorrow to meet Robert Baratheon in battle," he announced without any frivolties. Lyanna wished he had done that from the start. "I haven't allowed myself much time, I afraid. I must move quickly to organize my army and end this war." Panic seeped into Lyanna's veins, though not due to Rhaegar's leave. Ned surely fought by Robert; if Rhaegar was meant to meet Robert, then he would meet her sweet brother too, who had been married for just seven moons. Lyanna had already taken one man from Catelyn Tully; she could not bear to take another.

Perhaps he noticed the fear in her eyes, or how she paled, or maybe that she was wringing the fabric of her dress in her hands, but Rhaegar's eyes flitted to her, where they lingered for longer than she would have liked.

"It has only been two weeks, yet it looks as if the babe is grown," he murmured dreamily. A warmth bloomed in Lyanna's cheeks, the same girlish one she had when she met Rhaegar in the woods at night when she aimed to return the flowered crown to him. She had kept that crown after all- but she had been a child then, dazzled by the moonlight in his hair. She was a woman now. This blush stemmed from discomfort. "I swear to you, Lyanna, that you will not feel this way when I return. You've a right to be angry; but you won't be for long." He still insisted! She wondered if he would ever learn that her feelings would never return. "Children have a way of changing things," he added softly, with a hint of sentimentality.

 _Yes,_ Lyanna agreed. _Children change everything._

"If that is all you have to say to me, you may leave, my lord," Lyanna returned coldly, turning her face to him to meet those sad purple eyes. They flashed with a hint of anguish before settling back into their usual calm. He nodded.

"Then I suppose it is good-bye, Lyanna." He stepped forward, perhaps to touch her, but Lyanna rebuffed him with a sharp turn of her head.

"Good-bye."

She did not look to him to see how long he lingered; she only knew that he did, and that she did not move until well after he left.

That night she prayed for the health of her babe, peace for her Brandon and her father, and long life to Benjen and Ned. Not a word was spared for the crown prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of y'all hate me for this. But let me explain my rationalization of this before I get angry comments:
> 
> Rhaegar had been obssessed with the prophecy. This is undeniable. He took up sword and shield because he thought he was the prince that was promised, then discovered that he was not, put his faith in Aegon, found a loophole of sorts, and began to search for his prince all over again (this is seen through various passages, but namely there is Dany's vision of Rhaegar and Elia that supports this).
> 
> Rhaegar and Elia were said to have a happy marriage, that he was "fond" of her, and did good by her and remained faithful- except when it came to Harrenhal, where he completely humiliates her by passing her over, and then does it a second time by running away with Lyanna. Both times involves Lya, and due to extensive romanticization on Targ loyalists' parts, it was accepted that he "loved her" and that was the reason for everything. Which is stupid and lazy, just as all romanticizations are. He would have had no reason to chase after her, write her, etc after Harrenhal if it was just a passing infatuation. He needed Lyanna for what he believed he was put on earth to do.
> 
> A person who is obsessed with something is not satisfied til he gets it (for example: Tywin), and while I do not doubt that he loved Lyanna, I highly, highly, highly doubt that he loved her more than a prophecy that he had chased after HIS WHOLE LIFE. Lyanna would not be okay with this just as Elia would not have been okay with him chasing after another girl for this ancient prophecy. Rhaegar views his whole purpose of living as fulfilling this prophecy- he needed it enough that he blew off Elia and his children, broke a betrothal, and started a war.
> 
> Moreover, Lyanna is young and naive. She was taken by a storm by a man who listens to her, treats her like a partner instead of a wife, respects her, etc. Rickard's and Brandon's deaths would have put the first crack in her rose colored glasses, and then once the realities of war, the fact that Ned is married, and that this is all indirectly her fault caught up with her, she would grow up and begin to question things. To learn that she is part of a plan, that Rhaegar's intentions had always been to get her pregnant, and that his falling in love was just an unexpected bonus, would have shattered said rose colored glasses and she would have opened her eyes and undoubtedly pushed Rhaegar away. Lyanna wanted freedom, choice, adventure, excitement, and to learn that she was always just a vessel for a baby would not be forgiven.
> 
> Remember that Lyanna is selfish and impulsive. They are flaws that she possesses, and they rule her decisions. She is not Elia; Lya would not be content with being with someone who did not consider her the most important thing in the world. She came with him on a whim, on a feeling, that she rode out until she realized that he did not love her as much as she thought he did, and that she did not ever take the time to consider the consequences of her actions (or just how impossible it is that a good faithful prince is willing to risk everything just for her).
> 
> And that is my logic. Love it or leave it. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> But this story's not over yet.


	28. Rhaegar, Elia, Ned // Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pride can kill, can help, can hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is long. As always, thanks for your comments- even the negative ones!

**Rhaegar**

He had left the knights with specific orders before he departed.

"When the war is won," he had told them in a strong voice, the voice he reserved for ruling. "You will receive word of it. I will not send for the Lady Lyanna until King's Landing is mine; when I do, bring her with haste. I would rather she give birth in King's Landing than here." It would be more comfortable there, he had reasoned, as she would be tended to by a plethora of maesters and servants. If he could not afford her happiness he could surely afford her comfort. "But if she is heavy with child," he stipulated with a grim frown. "Do not move her. Do not bring her until both the mother and child are well enough to travel." This scenario he would wish to avoid; he would rather be by her side, hold her hand, push back dark strands of hair from her sweaty face. True, she loathed him now, but she would not after such an absence. Or at least, that was what he hoped.

"If the war is lost..." Rhaegar began softly, his commanding tone slipping. "Flee with her. Across the Narrow Sea to Essos, you will take her. With mother and child in good health, of course." This scenario was worst than the first. Rhaegar did not wish to dwell on it.

When he mounted up his horse the next day, Ser Arthur appeared and insisted he come along. "I beg of you, your grace, allow me to accompany you," he had pleaded on bent knee and bowed head. "The princess will do well with two knights. I, however, cannot do well with the thought of being absent by your side in battle." Rhaegar was touched by his loyalty, truly, though it was an emotion that could be stifled for the sake of his wife and unborn child.

"Ser Arthur, you are the greatest knight I've known, and true," he had praised him with a smile. "But your place is more valuable by the princess's side; she will be Queen when this war is done. I can think of no one better to protect her in my stead." The matter was settled then, though it was clear in the twitch of the knight's lip that he would rather be astride a horse beside him as he rode off to King's Landing.

Once there, Rhaegar was swept up in preparations, shuffled from one task to another. And for good reason; the Rebel army was advancing on the Kingsroad and towards the heart of the kingdom. To win now, to crush them, cut down their leader was to put an end to this little rebellion. To lose...

He was put to command an army of 40,000 soldiers, some men trained though mostly untrained, but it was a formidable number to the rebel's 35,000 (numbers pulled from spies, partially trustworthy people, people of intrigue, people Rhaegar needed). The number hadn't always been so high; they had begun with 30,000, but through Rhaegar's rallying and roaming over the countryside and the towns, he managed to convince another 10,000 men of his cause.

"My people!" He had cried atop horses, stages, and hills. "Your kingdom has cried, suffered, and bled for long enough. Your fields have been razed, your villages pillaged, your homes entered and raided and burned. You tire of this war. You pray for an end. I ask you now, my men, to raise your sword with me and bring it down on these faithless men!" Women sobbed at his pathos, men hollered at his encouragements, and children pushed past adults to catch a glimpse of him. They lended him an energy that he felt on every inch of him. "I cannot prevail without your assistance," He would say at the end of every speech above the hollers of the crowd. "I am prepared to bleed- bleed with me, men. Help me!" Then the crowd would cry his name, sing his praises, and cheer and cheer and cheer. Men rushed to sign up, retrieved their family sword and shield, and marched with him to camps.

Rhaegar had been fitted for his armor, steel as black as coal with polished red rubies adorning the breastplate in the shape of the three-headed dragon of his house. His helm was tall and grand and black, his boots pointed, his sword of the sturdiest Valyrian steel. When he was dressed in it, he truly looked a giant in skin darker than night.

He couldn't help but wish that Lyanna could see him now, that all was well between them.

She would marvel at the fine details of his decorative armor, try the grand helm on for size, run her small hands down the length of the sturdy sword. She wouldn't be the type to kiss it for luck, no. She would rather take the heavy weapon in her own hands and swing it herself before reluctantly handing it back over. If she were here, in King's Landing, they would make love the night before he rode out, then the day after he would kiss her goodbye with a hand resting on the swell of her middle.

But Lyanna was not here. She was far away, unhappy, unwilling to look at him, much less touch him, and their goodbye had been short and bitter. 

He could only pray that his absence would return him to her favor. Yet a part of him feared she wouldn't.

_But she will come here,_ he reassured himself. _She will live alongside me, and I will see her. I will hold our son in my arms. And he will be worth it._

Yet something felt wrong. It seemed that he did not leave Dorne alone, as a dark shadow followed him since. It was a heavy feeling, that sort that weighed on your chest, impossible to be put into words. With it came a sense of foreboding, a feeling of doom, of a certain end. It hung over him when he called out to his troops, when he sat upon his horse to recruit men to battle, when he donned his great black helm. It seemed with every encouraging word either said or thought, another phrase accompanied it: _It cannot be done._

It was hard to stifle.

He had hoped to see Elia again. He thought to apologize for whatever pain he had caused her, to pledge that things will be different, that they will be happier. _I owe her that much, and more._ Rhaegar had told himself. Yet everytime he thought to see Elia again, to look upon his children, the phantom feeling pressed hard upon him, turned him away from Elia's door, Rhaenys's room, and Aegon's nursery. _I will see them when I return, when I am victorious, so they can be proud._ Rhaegar had told himself. Then it would reply:

_It cannot be done._

The day came for him to ride out to meet the rebel army, as sudden and unwelcome as a storm. He was already atop his horse in the Red Keep's courtyard, dressed in his fine armor, when Jaime Lannister, the golden-haired protegy of the Kingsguard, had come to plead to with him.

"Please, your grace," he begged as Arthur had. "Let me accompany you. Let me ride out with you. I wish to fight by your side."

The boy was not tempered through Rhaegar's insistance, and was not silenced until he shared a private piece of information: "The King will notice your absence, Ser Jaime. He's come to rely on seeing you beside him, believes you are loyal to him. Leave now and he will notice. Bear him just a little longer, if not for my sake then for the sake of the people." The boy then bowed his head and nodded, and it was clear in his sluggish gait that he would prefer to be anywhere but by the King's side. _It will have to do,_ Rhaegar wanted to say to him, but he was too far gone.

 

All the while as they rode down the Kingsroad, the shadow followed. As he neared the rebel army, its haunting song grew louder, til it turned bitter in his mouth as it tried to push past into sound. _It cannot be done. It cannot be done._ But Rhaegar bit it back, ignored it as well as he could.

It was not until Rhaegar was knee deep in the waters of the Trident did it leave his lips. The ford crashed around his legs while the wind whistled in the strong breeze as he looked upon his enemy: Robert Baratheon was every bit the furious stag of his house, tall as he but only without that grand antlered helm. He was broader, more muscled, more reckless. His rage radiated off him in waves, while his thirst for blood clung to him and hung in the air around him like a strong, musky perfume. "Rhaegar!" He had bellowed; a more passionate cry, Rhaegar had never heard. "Today, you die!"

"It cannot be done," he whispered below his breath, though it was not of his own command. Then Lyanna's face appeared.

He saw her as his donned his helm and cried for his men to charge. He saw her as Robert Baratheon advanced on him with his large warhammer raised above his head. He was avoided with ease, as he lacked speed through his enormous size.

Yet even as Robert swung and missed and snarled, Rhaegar thought of nothing, no one other than Lyanna. He had left her so suddenly, so sorrowfully, with so much left unsaid. He left her knowing that he treasured her less than his most fervent passion. And it was true. He could hardly lie to her as he could hardly confirm it. The prophecy was what he cherished most, always, forever. The prince had always been the objective. Lyanna had always been a part of his plan. They were mortals, and the prince was of the gods; their feelings didn't matter at all.

_No,_ A voice swam up suddenly, unusually loud, muffling out the sounds of battle around him. _You love her. You love her most._

Rhaegar nearly faltered in his step at this sudden epiphany. Time seemed to seemed to halt altogether; the waters stood still, Robert stood frozen with that grand warhammer in hand prepared to strike, men all around him became paintings of fallen soldiers, felled knights. Still amidst all this fear he wanted to cry: _What a fool you are!_ It took staring his doom in the eye to realize what had been obvious, but how he felt it now! Time moved again, and passion lended him strength, enough to swing his sword down at Robert's shoulder and wound him. He cried out before switching his weapon over to his other hand with an unearthly growl.

Was it too late? Could he leave now, ride out to Dorne, go to that joyous tower, and proclaim his devotion for her and nothing else? How love pulsed through him now! It was as if it were the first time again, in that warm forest outside of Harrenhal with Lyanna up in a tree and Rhaegar marveling from below. 

Why did he realize this so late? Why did the revelation reach him now, as he parried with this fearsome bull of a man, who seemed to be growing fiercer with each stroke? It seemed cruel- but then the gods were cruel. They allowed him to choose words in a book over a lover's warm embrace until he found himself in the middle of a river of blood with men dying all around him.

_You hurt her,_ that phantom voice murmured in a ghastly voice. _You hurt Lyanna. She suffers. It cannot be done._

_I know!_ he internally hollered so he may shush that incessant sense of doom. _I've hurt her. I've ruined it. What can I say? What can I do? We are finished. It cannot be done._

Hope was lost.

That giant warhammer crashed into that magnificent armor, sent the rubies of the second dragon's head flying. Rhaegar thought it was emotion that filled his mouth, but it was blood he choked on, though it tasted like his sorrow. It stained his lips, warming them as a kiss would.

_I'm sorry, Lya. I'm sorry my love._

He dropped to his knees, lowered his eyes to that swirling blood-stained water, and saw dark curls whipping in the waves, a playful red smile formed with those pretty rubies, and a hearty laugh resounding in his head. Rhaegar drew one last breath and with it he murmured:

"Lyanna...."

_I love you._

 

**Elia**

The sounds of grief had floated up to their room in Maegor's Holdfast about an hour ago, and now Elia sat in fear.

That dread had begun when she had been told of Rhaegar's death. She had heard it from the most unsavory of tongues: the king himself. "Rhaegar is dead," he had hissed, his fingers curling around the iron arms of the throne. "They've slaughtered my son!" His voice raised to an unearthly screech that echoed throughout the throne room. Had someone walked in know, they would have seen a man looking every bit like a Mad King. "A mere stag dares to kill a dragon! Over what! Over what! Over a few whimpering wolves? They have taken my son, but they will not take my kingdom, no. No, they will not take it, no, no, the stag will not sit here, no, no, NO!" Elia had been able to slip out then as he tumbled into a fit of incoherent madness. That night, Elia did not cry until her children were well into their untroubled slumbers. She did not understand her tears; they did not taste sad, but they were there.

That was two weeks ago. Now Elia was huddled on Rhaegar's old bed, in his old room with Aegon and Rhaenys in her lap, as she whispered stories of old in their ears. She had already exhausted some of the more interesting ones; Queen Nymeria, Shiera Seastar, Bittersteel, Blackraven, the Rhoynar. Some were tales told to her as a child- most were ones that Rhaegar told her. Elia had forgotten some of the details, though he hadn't when he first recited them. _He was so smart,_ Elia mused inwardly. _How could someone so keen be such a fool? How could he put an ancient promise above his wife, his children?_ It was impossible for Elia to understand. Now was not the time to think about it.

Balerion, that little black cat, stirred in Rhaenys's lap, letting out a soft meow. Her daughter had been struggling to hold him still for some time now; he was a restless little cat who preferred rambunctious play over cuddles. Rhaenys had found so much joy in him, having grown irrevocably attached to the feline. There were days when he would scamper off somewhere unknown, and Rhaenys would cry so sorrowfully when she couldn't find him. _Mother, where is he? Where is my dragon?_ she would whimper and whine. She would not stop her blubbers until Elia took her by the hand to search for him. When he was located, she would cry _Balerion! My dragon!_ before gathering the jittery black creature in her arms and pressing her face to its shiny fur.

"Sit, Balerion, sit!" Rhaenys whispered to her cat now, speaking to it as if it were a human child. "Mother is telling stories, so sit!" Elia smoothed her daughter's dark hair with a smile, amused by her spirit. 

Suddenly, the noise from below felt very near. There was the sound of doors being kicked in, wails down the hall, footsteps rapidly advancing. _They are here,_ Elia realized with a wave of panic that rattled her very core. _But how, so soon?_ She had chosen his place for she knew entrance would difficult. The walls were thick and tall, and iron spikes surrounded it. They had only entered through the good grace of a pitying knight. Elia had hoped to stay there with her children until all had settled down, where she could then negotiate for their lives. But the enemy was here early, and it was clear that it was not with good intention. Rhaenys must have noticed how she blanched for she asked, "What's wrong?"

_Compose yourself, Elia!_ she scolded herself. _Your children rely on you now more than ever before. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Do not falter now._ Forcing a smile, Elia replied,

"Nothing is wrong, sweet child. It is just so noisy now, I must speak louder so you can hear the stories-" Just then, a loud crash from down the hall, startling the black cat in Rhaenys's lap. He broke free from her iron grasp to scurry under the bed.

"Balerion!" Rhaenys exclaimed fearfully, tearing herself from her mother's embrace to pursue the cat below. 

"No!" Elia cried in a high voice, fright grasping at her throat. She extended an arm to grab her, but caught only air. The noise outside grew louder, clearer, closer. The babe in her arms began to cry at the top of his little lungs. Panic was pulsing through her, pounding at the inside of her head. "Rhaenys, come-"

The door flew open, and in came two men clad in armor, embellished in red and gold. The one in front was tall, large, and dwarfed the other, appearing like a mountain beside a hill. His dark eyes rested on her and he let out a terrible laugh that sent tremors throughout her body. _Do not falter, Elia!_ cried the voice within her. _Do not move. Let them see that you do not fear them._ Yet all Elia could do was stay still, clenching to cease the shakes, but with a face of stone that held eyes brimming with desperation.

"Mother! Mother!" She heard Rhaenys cry from under the bed. "Who is it? Is it father?" A man quickly made his way over to the bed and stooped down to reach under. Elia could not see what he did afterwards, as that mountain of a man stood before her and blocked her view, though she heard Rhaenys's screams, shrill and painful, and the sound of a blade cutting into flesh many, many times. "Rhaenys! Rhaenys!" She cried in a savage voice, one that scratched at her throat. "Mother is here-"

The wailing child in her arms was torn from her grasp, which had reflexively tightened, and the little boy was dashed against the wall, silencing him immediately. _Aegon!_ she wanted to cry, though she couldn't. Terror held her tongue. Grief stilled her movements. The large soldier pushed her down onto Rhaegar's bed, and Elia closed her eyes.

_Oh Rhaenys, oh Aegon,_ she lamented as a monstrous hand grasped the front of her dress. _I'm sorry. Mother is so sorry._ Rhaenys's cries had begun to die down, turning into little whimpers that eventually turned into silence.

Elia did not shed a tear until then, for Elia could not let her little one's last thing heard be the sounds of her own mother's helpless sobs. Hiding that pain was part of being a mother- and being a mother was the best she could do for her children.

But when the cold kiss of steel reached her throat, she looked that giant in his cruel eyes and did not cry.

_Let him know a Martell's strength,_ she thought, then all went black.

 

**Ned**

Ned left King's Landing a victor, but not a proud one. No, pride was not an emotion he felt. Disgust, yes. Shame, yes. Anger, yes. But not pride.

He had shed any semblance of it only minutes after he had entered King's Landing post-sack. Children bled, many dead, in the streets; women lay beside them either beset with sorrow or paralyzed with shock. Houses were burnt to ashes, whole markets destroyed, farmland razed- it was the very image of unwarranted suffering, of needless violence. It was all Tywin Lannister's handiwork, Ned had soon discovered. It was enough that he had sworn fealty when the war was all but won, that they had been their enemies until it was apparent that he would lose- but then that was the cunning that bolstered the avarice of the Lannisters.

Ned had found Jaime, the golden boy of the Kingsguard, sitting in the Iron Throne that did not belong to him with Aerys at his feet. Ned went slack-jawed at the sight of it; a man sworn to protect the king, gained recognition by being in his innermost circle, was the one to kill him, and had the gall to take his throne with his blood still fresh on his sword. Upon seeing Ned, he had vacated his seat with a laugh and an off-handed comment, as if it were a funny thing to be a kingslayer in white armor.

When Robert arrived a day later, having lagged behind due to his wound (Rhaegar had struck where the assassin had struck, right in his shoulder; the wound had reopened quite violently, and needed attention). He had walked into the throne room of the Red Keep donned in his most decorative armor with a high head and a hard stare. He looked straight at that grand dark throne with its thousand swords, sparing no glance sideways, not even to Ned himself. He simply sat himself down in that soiled throne, adjusted himself briefly before he straightening, and unblinkingly accepting the crown set up on his head. Though he did not confess it, Ned knew his friend well enough to guess that his solemnity was not one due to humility. Robert did not want to be king. It was through his Targaryen grandmother did he earn his kingship; not at all his own desire.

But Robert's face remained unchanged, still hard as stone, as he did everything Ned feared he would. He pardoned Varys, the spider that aided in Aerys's madness, and Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer himself. He made no mention of the damages done to King's Landing, did not care that Jaime had committed the highest act of treason, and shrugged when Varys's crimes were read off to him.

Ned was appalled; he had known his friend did not have a head for ruling, but he had not anticipated this misjudgement. Yet all of this, all of these dishonors already done within the first hours of his reign, paled in comparison to what was presented last.

Tywin Lannister stepped forward, assuring again his fealty to Robert. "I have brought you a present, your grace," he said in that cold drawl of his. "A token of sorts- proof of my loyalty to you, you grace." With a single motion of a gloved hand, three bodies wrapped in crimson cloaks were set before Robert. Gasps had erupted in the room all at once, followed by frantic whispers. Ned could not manage such a passionate response; instead, his open mouth tightened into a hard line.

It was the princess Elia, beautiful even in death, even with purple lips, beside her two dead, bloodied children; nay, children was too kind a word. _Babes_ was what they were, and Elia a mere woman, all nothing more than innocents who were unfortunate enough to be guilty by association.

Ned's harsh gaze went from the battered bodies to Tywin, who was smiling softly, and then to Robert, who looked upon the bodies only briefly before flitting back to the man who presented them. _Say something, Robert,_ Ned urged inwardly. _See them as they are. See Tywin as he is. Say something!_ Robert said nothing. He only nodded his approval and motioned for the bodies to be removed from the room. Tywin had bowed and carried out his orders.

That had truly been the greatest crime in the whole course of the war. It became even greater a crime when he learned that Elia had been raped before she was murdered, that Aegon had been ripped from her arms to be killed before her eyes, that Rhaenys had been stabbed- _stabbed_ half a hundred times. Ned did not understand Robert's indifference, his total lack of feeling. After the formalities, Ned seeked a private audience with Robert, to have a much needed word with him.

Robert had been throwing back a goblet of wine when Ned entered the private room adjacent to the throne room. Jon Arryn was beside him, prattling on about an important matter that Robert did not care about. Upon Ned's entrance, Jon diverted his gaze to him. He smiled at his surrogate son, and said,

"Eddard, I've been waiting for you. You must go south to Storm's End and lift the seige-"

"The princess and her children had nothing to do with this war, Robert." Ned said coldly, ignoring his former guardian. His attentions were on Robert now, and no one else. He fixed him with a cold glare, one that Robert returned.

"Nothing?" Robert asked with an edge of venom. "That Dornish woman was his wife, those children, his seed." There was no need in specifying who he was referring to; there was only one man Robert hated, and he slew him at the Trident.

"Rhaegar is dead. You killed him," Ned reminded him in a tone as sharp as a whetted blade. "His wife and children did not steal Lyanna. That was him, not-"

"Lyanna!" Robert cried suddenly in a voice that pierced Ned's ears. "There, you have said it. What good would it be to her to know that the wife and spawn of that monster live, that they lived so nicely here in this damned city while she was raped hundreds of times by Rhaegar?" He spat the name violently, as if he were expelling a bitter taste rather than just the name of a dead man. "They are nothing to me. Their deaths and Rhaegar's hardly makes up for what he did to your sister." How brightly that fire burned in his blue eyes! He always turned that way when it came to Lyanna. Yet Robert spoke as if he knew her well, when in truth he knew her very little.

"Lyanna would not have wanted this. She would tell you that they were unjustly murdered, as I am telling you now." Robert visibly bristled at this response, his jaw clenching, but it did not soften him. "It was not their _choice_ , to stay here, no more than it was within their power to keep Rhaegar from doing what he did." The image of Aegon's split skull and Rhaenys's torn red body flashed into his mind. Ned felt sick. He tried again to drive his point through Robert's thick head. "The children were only babes, Robert-"

"I see no babes," Robert growled in a low voice, his eyes flashing with hate. "I see only dragonspawn. I will have no more of their kind in my kingdom." His words came down hard on Ned, as a hammer to a hot blade. A spark flew, and something ignited.

"It is murder, Robert!" Ned thundered in a booming voice, one that rung in his own ears. His blood was boiling, thrumming hotly under his skin, and he could not contain his rage any longer. "The babes did not engage you in battle, and the princess did not rape Lyanna. Say that it is murder, that it is wrong- that is all I ask."

Robert did not respond. He only poured another glass of wine and turned his back to him. Ned seethed, waited, but turned as well, unable to look at the man he called "brother".

"Men, do not quarrel now. It is not the time for such disputes," Jon's sage voice stated. Yet even his soothing tones did not snuff the flame within him. "Greater problems await us; what is done is done. You two have made it this far together; do not fall apart now. The kingdom is broken; it needs the two of you to put it back together."

Such soft and brotherly words might have caused them to turn around and throw each other sheepish smiles some other day, a thousand years ago, but not today. Ned was too honorable and Robert was too stubborn; what happened was not something that could be agreed on.

"I will go south and lift the seige at Storm's End, Jon," Ned said in an even voice that held only the slightest shred of bitterness. "I'll leave now. I cannot bear this city a moment longer." He stepped to the door and opened it; lingering in the doorway, he turned his head slightly, and said, "The man I grew up with did not stand for the senseless killing of women and babes. I do not if I am talking to that man still."

"I am not that man," Robert retorted sharply. "I am your king."

"Very well, your grace," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I pray you are proud of what you have done."

_For I do not._ No, Ned did not feel proud. Not one whit.

\---

A moon had passed, and his rage had settled into a dark cloud of resentment that hung over his head. It did not fade after he left King's Landing, nor did it dissipate when the last remnant of war was cleared up through the lifting of the seige at Storm's End. He had brought with him a regiment of soldiers, mostly for appearances, but it was the men close to him he truly relied on; Howland Reed had been his little shadow since the beginning, and Ned had come to trust him deeply. Ethan Glover had also come; his dedication to Brandon did not fade, and his love for the Starks only grew. Ned made more companions throughout the war, a handful of which he trusted with his life. They were good men to have to your back when he demanded the enemy to bend the knee.

Luckily, Mace Tyrell was quick to swear fealty, and withdrew his forces immediately. His men looked healthy, well-fed, teeming with color; Lord Mace was positively fat. Inside the city walls, the people did not look quite the same. Food was scarce in Storm's End, with not one man spared from starvation. It was a harsh seige they had been subjected to, but the people were resilient and had faith in their lords.

One such lord was Stannis, stone-faced Stannis, the silent stalwart, had stuck out the entire war living on rats and onions. He emerged with a substantially thinner face than Ned remembered, and a haggard look to him, yet he was quick to return to his regular duties. He had the people fed, the soldiers paid, and doled out punishment on those who earned it. Ever the fundamentalist, he had even punished the smuggler that delivered their salvation in the form of onions- but offered him a lordship right after. Stannis was much like Ned, he realized. Perhaps that's why they never took a liking to each other.

A rider had caught up with him in Storm's End the day after Mace Tyrell bent the knee. He was wearing Stark colors and rode a northern horse. It was Howland who notified him of the rider; Ned met him outside of the keep with the crannogman at his side.

"My lord," he said with a respectful bow. "News regarding your lady wife."

Catelyn! He wondered how she fared in Riverrun, his stranger of a wife, where he had left her with child and a promise. She had entered her last months of pregnancy; perhaps...

Ned's mouth dried. He struggled to speak for a moment, then stammered, "O-out with it, then." Why was his tongue always in knots when it came to her?

"Your lady wife bore a son, m'lord. He was born a little over a month ago- forgive me, m'lord, I have forgotten the date of the nameday. It was sometime around the Sack."

The rider left him reeling. _A son?_ A sudden burst of joy emerged in his cold heart. _A little babe of mine own?_ Ned stood shocked for quite some time; the rider had even left (out of eventual boredom, no doubt), but once the disbelief had faded, Ned's thoughts turned clear. _He is nameless now, to be sure. What shall I name him? My son..._ He spent the rest of the day wondering if he took after his mother or himself, if he had grey eyes or green, a pale complexion or a dark one. Ned could not sleep that night due to the excitement; he pondered every detail of his unknown child, and yearned to see him. _Perhaps I'll ride out to Riverrun,_ Ned mused. _It is not too far from here. A son!_

Ned might have done so too, if it weren't for the information he received only a day after. It was in the form of a letter, unsigned and with a blank seal. _Eddard Stark,_ it wrote. _Your sister can be found at the Tower of Joy, in Dorne, on the Prince's Pass between Kingsgrave and Nightsong. She awaits. Three knights do as well._

Ned did not pause to wonder who the author might be; he looked south, gathered seven companions, among them the faithful Howland Reed who swore sword and spear to Lyanna, and headed for Dorne.

Catelyn and his unnamed son could wait- his prayers had finally been answered, and his sister was found.

_I'm coming, Lya._

Ned had been strong for everyone in this damnable war; now he could finally be strong for the one who started it all. Maybe when she was safe and near again, he could be proud.

_Your brother is coming._

Ned was her sole protector, her only older brother. He could not fail her, not in this. Not like Brandon.

_I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In this part of the story I am the one who  
>  Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because  
> I love you,  
> Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood._  
> \--Pablo Neruda, _I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You_


	29. Lyanna // A Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna had waited for him- for both of them -for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm not trying to depress you guys. Just keep holding on, folks! These last three chapters are my equivalent of Goya's Black Paintings. Or something.

Lyanna gave Arthur's fingers a squeeze as another wave of pain wracked her body. This one was considerably harsher than the last. She turned her head to look at the dark-haired knight, who appeared almost plain without his armor.

"Please, let me go home." Lyanna pleaded with him for the third time. The first had been after Rhaegar left. The second was after they learned he had died.

Arthur shook his head as he did the last two times. "We have sent for a maester," he said. "After he sees you, and after you recover, we leave." Leave to the Free Cities, across the Narrow Sea, far away from Dorne and even farther from Winterfell. Lyanna thought she might cry. Even in death, Rhaegar had a plan for her. Choice was not something ever discussed. He had accomplished what she swore she would let no man do; he tied her down and stuck her in a cage, stifled hopes of freedom with beautiful words, made her believe that the heavy chains he threw around her was the weight of love- and she had accepted it blindly for so long.

She wondered if regret ever crossed his mind, as it did hers. She hoped he felt pain when Robert smashed his chest in, pain worse than what he felt now. She supposed it didn't matter. In the end, she did not cry for him.

A sharp pang hit her stomach and Lyanna cried out involuntarily. The babe was arriving today, this much was sure. Just an hour ago she had been outside taking a walk- with Arthur's assistance -when she felt water dribble down her legs. Lyanna had ignored it, too embarrassed to confess anything, but sharp, unrelenting pains followed quickly after, and she nearly dropped to the ground. It was Arthur who gathered her up in his arms and carried her up the flight of stairs, all while murmuring, "All will be well, your grace."

He had done well to care for her since Rhaegar's leave; it was Arthur who examined her movements, noted when they were sluggish, could tell when she was exhausted. His presence eventually became a comfort to her, despite the fact that she felt she should hate him. He had, in fact, confessed that Rhaegar commanded him to take her away from Westeros if he lost, which Lyanna reacted violently to. She screamed and cried and begged, but Arthur was loyal to a fault, and would not bend to her fury. Lyanna supposed she respected him for that.

Still, it was hard to forget that the kind knight had plans to spirit her and her babe away, when all she wanted was to go home.

The babe had grown so much since Rhaegar left. For the past four months he kicked her, sent aches to the center of her back, bruised her swollen ankles. There was no relief, but then she was glad of it. Even in her darkest, most desolate hours, he would stir within her, reminding her she was not alone. Even on her eighteenth nameday, when Lyanna thought of how mournful it was that she celebrated it with no one, he was there, kicking her, wishing her a happy day. And as he silently communicated with her, Lyanna would whisper back to him, telling him stories of his uncles, of his grandfather and grandmother, of quarrels and japes, of togetherness, of midnight rides where the only sound was the sound of the wind, a horse's hooves, and your own thoughts.

The sound of quick footsteps bounding up the stairs reached that top room (Lyanna moved back in it despite the memories, despite the fact that the sheets still smelled like Rhaegar; Lyanna returned since it had the most light of any room, kept cool at night, as it was better for the babe). Oswell and Gerold entered the room none too quietly, clanging in their white armor. _Why are they dressed?_ Lyanna wondered, furrowing her brows. Gerold looked at Arthur grimly; Oswell looked at her pityingly. _Why do they look like that?_

Arthur stood up suddenly, loosing his fingers from Lyanna's grasp. She tried to sit up, but her large stomach prevented her from doing more than propping herself up on her forearms. "What is it? What's wrong?" She demanded despite the agony that washed over her just then. Oh, the child was coming, and it seemed he would not wait.

"Eddard Stark has come here, with friends," Gerold answered, though it was directed to Arthur. Lyanna's heart raced at the mention of her dear brother, her dearest Ned.

_He is here? He outside?_ Lyanna wanted to ask, but her excitement faded into a silencing fear for her brother's life. If the knights meant to fight, Ned could-

"Please," she whispered below her her breath. None heard her; quickly gathering her wits, Lyanna tried again. "Please!" She exclaimed, drawing three pairs of eyes on her. Her chest was rising and falling as anguish and fright labored her breath. "Do not hurt him. I will do anything- I'll come along quietly, anywhere you want... I won't argue, I swear, but do not hurt my brother, please, _please_..." Her bleary-eyed gaze went to Ser Oswell, who admired her more than the rest, who was quick to jape with her, to be kind to her. It went to Ser Gerold, the White Bull, so loyal, so honorable, so humble and true, so much larger than any man Lyanna had ever met. When she received no sympathy from those two, her pleading eyes landed on Ser Arthur; he was the knight she had the closest relationship with, the one who gave her his arm when went she went for walks, who laid her down on the bed when water trickled down her thighs, who held her hand as she fought the pain.

Yet not even he answered her. None yielded to her. Each gave her a respectful bow and filed out one by one. Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold left first; Ser Arthur lingered. "Arthur, I beg of you, please do not kill him," she pleaded with the brilliant knight who was dressing in his brilliant armor. "Let him know Lord of Winterfell, let his wife keep him for many years to come. Please, if you bear me any love, _please_..." A single tear slipped down her cheek, but Arthur's face remained unchanged. "Spare him."

"The prince had left me with orders; I aim to follow them, above all." He turned to leave, but Lyanna would not relent.

"The prince is dead," she hissed through gritted teeth. "And he is prince no more; I am alive, his widow, and I ask you to spare my brother." But Arthur was just as insistent, only cooly so. He picked up Dawn, which was leaning on the vanity, and bowed to her.

"He is not dead to me." Ser Arthur Dayne, Oathkeeper, Sword of the Morning- how he wounded her so. "Forgive me, your grace." And with that, he left.

An invisible weight crashed against her chest, and Lyanna suddenly found it hard to breathe. A vision of those three mighty men drawing their swords against her brother forced itself to the front of her mind, along with a reminder: _It is all your fault._ Her heart ached as twinges of sorrow pricked at it like hundreds of whetted needles. _If Ned dies, it is your fault. You've killed one brother and now you'll kill the other._ Unbidden, pitiful sobs pushed past her lips, sent salty tears streaming down her face. It was too much to bear, too much to imagine. For the first time in many moons, Lyanna allowed herself to cry, despite the babe who might hear her.

Tears of sorrow mingled with tears of pain as a contraction pulsed down her lower stomach. She gasped at the ferocity of it, crying out as many more quickly followed with only seconds in between. The sound of swords singing in battle below reached her ears, piercing her to her heart. At each clash, each clang of metal, Lyanna wondered, _Is it Ned? Is he winning?_ As she pulled her skirt over her bent knees and spread her legs, as she fisted the sheets at each wave of agony, Lyanna prayed, _Protect him, please protect him._

The pain suddenly became unbearable. She let out short, fast breaths, leaving her no chance to bite back the tears that stung her eyes and blurred her vision. Oh, but it _hurt_ , it hurt so much, that not even sobs relieved it. She yearned for someone, anyone, to be by her side to hold her hand, but mostly she wished for Ned.

Another pang in her womb, this one worst than the last; another vision of Ned fighting for his life, this one less hopeful- Lyanna threw her head back and let out a desperate scream. She tried to fill her head with delightful thoughts, of happier times, but only the worst came to mind and they danced with the unyielding pain she felt between her legs. Lyanna couldn't tell what hurt more.

_Oh Ned, sweet Ned, dearest Eddard, please come to me,_ she found herself wishing inwardly as she screamed and sobbed. _I need you. Please, forgive me and come to me, hold my hand, tell me all be well again, Eddard, Eddard, Eddard-_

"Eddard!" She wailed, tasting her salty tears. Searching for distraction, Lyanna fixed her gaze on the ceiling now, that round pointed ceiling painted brightly with frescos of frolicking children, of beautiful maids and chivalrous knights, all things she once was. _Our Tower of Joy,_ a soothing voice whispered in her head, a voice she knew was Rhaegar's. How cruel that she would look upon such lighthearted scenes of love and innocence when she had none left! How terrible that this sweetly named tower was her dungeon, her cell full of memories too heavy to bear without wanting to die! And die she might, for surely no one person could feel so much pain of heart and body without being crushed under it.

It hurt to think that she had been the reason for so much death, that her own stupid naivete was what put her in this bed, where she had slept, made love, cried, kissed, learned, and now birthed. It was here that she had confused hands on her swollen stomach for true affection, prophecy for love, lovemaking for desire (and not a purpose, for that was all she was to him in the end).

There was another loud clang outside. _Is it Ned?_

When Lyanna thought she could scream no more, cry no more, bear no more, a final push earned her a second pair of cries from a smaller pair of lungs. Lyanna gasped, and forced herself to concentrate, to bring that child who had been her reason for being into this terrible, cruel world.  
When he did slip out, Lyanna let out a gasping sigh and silently thanked her gods: _Thank you, thank you._

A heavy warmth pushed between her legs, and when Lyanna leaned down, she nearly paled at the sight of it: it was blood, her blood, and it was staining her child- her _son_. Her head suddenly felt light and feverish, but she managed to fumble for the knife on her dresser, cut the cord that bound him to her, and take that wailing child into her arms. She examined him through heavy lidded eyes, noting that shock of dark hair and his northern complexion. An unexpected smile graced her lips as she wiped at his wet forehead with her sleeve, as it cried and cried in her arms.

Though her head spun madly, Lyanna found a sheet that had fallen onto the floor and carefully swaddled her small boy in it. He shushed suddenly, giving a sullen pout as he burrowed into her chest. Lyanna fell back on the pillows, panting, feeling overexterted, but her eyes did not leave her child. "Oh," she murmured dreamily. "Oh, my child. My sweet child. You are all the North, aren't you?" _You look like Ned._

Perhaps that was the gods' blessing to her, that they give her a son that looked so much like the brother she adored and nothing like the man who put him inside her. If the gods' truly loved her, he would have her brother's grey eyes and not purple ones. For now, those eyes were closed, and she kissed that sticky forehead, stroked those dark strands of hair, buried her nose in his chest. His little fists pressed to her face, prodding as if he were saying "Hello mama, hello."

_Mama._ Lyanna felt for the locket around her neck, that own with the wolf on the outside and her mother's portrait on the inside. The blood was still leaving her body, she realized, and Lyanna's head grew hot, with her movements becoming less and less coordinated. But she still opened that locket that had warmed against her heaving chest, and looked upon her mother's face. _Oh, mother. I'm one too, now._ On the other side were those blades of grass, now brown, that she had plucked from the godswood over a year ago. It was the last part of the North she had left, she realized, if Ned did not live. She pulled the blades from the locket, but they broke in her hand, turning into brittle bits.

Her heart skipped suddenly; it was silly, perhaps even stupid that such a thought popped into her head, but it did: _That was the last of the North I had left._ A queer panic ran through her veins as she darted her eyes around the room. Something blue caught her eye to the right of her; turning her head, she saw those blue winter roses she so loved sitting pretty in a vase illuminated by sunlight. Rhaegar had gotten them for her, true, but they were hers and they were the North. Using what little strength she had left, Lyanna leaned over and reached for a rose. The vase tilted, spilling the water inside, but the flower was between her fingers. Its thorns had been cut, she noticed, but it was all the better.

"Look," she rasped to her child. "Mama loves these flowers." She felt that she was going mad, what with these absurd thoughts, the sounds of ringing metal, and the blood that only kept spilling, but when she looked upon her babe, all was clear.

His tiny fingers curled around the bud, extracting some cerulean petals from it. Lyanna frowned, but then seconds later she smiled. She pulled the rose from his grasp, strong for a newborn babe's, more petals falling on her chest. The flower dropped to her fingers and onto the bed beside her where it would surely wilt later.

Lyanna noticed it had grown quiet, save for the thumping in her head. There was no sounds of battle outside anymore, but a sudden advancement of footsteps up the stairs. Lyanna protectively drew the babe closer to her chest, and waited to look upon the victors. The door opened, and two men in armor entered. A tired but delighted smile broke across her face at the sight of them.

"Ned," she murmured breathlessly, reaching out to him. Howland was there too, that sweet crannogman; but Ned was all that mattered. "You came."

She must have looked dreadful in that bloody bed, her dark hair sticking to her face with sweat, petals strewn across her, and her cheeks surely flushed. But Ned, bless him, did not look revolted, but rather concerned as he rushed to her side, dropping in the chair that Arthur had sat in, and held her cold hand.

"Lyanna," he said with a quivering lip, looking into her face with wide eyes as if he couldn't believe it was truly her. "Lyanna," he repeated, before covering her fingers with both hands, chafing them to warm them.

"I prayed for you, and you came," she said, that ghostly smile still gracing her lips. He kissed her knuckles, letting his lips linger, savoring her touch. The child stirred against her breast, and her eyes went back to him. He was sleeping, mouth open, likely awaiting her milk. He looked so serene, so sweet. "Isn't he beautiful?" She asked Ned. "Isn't my son beautiful?" Indeed, when she gazed upon him, things seemed a little clearer, the aches less sharp.

"He is... His father..." Ned trailed off, but Lyanna understood, nodding.

"Rhaegar." That name had not left her lips so sweetly in a long while, and she wished she could take it back, bend it to sound menacing. But she was too tired for anger. She could not fight it any longer; her eyelids suddenly felt very heavy, and she closed them, swimming in darkness. When she spoke, she spoke feverishly, words tumbling out of her mouth with no yielding. "I ran away with him. Did you know that? No, of course you didn't... you believed something else..." Rape. Kidnapping. Lyanna suddenly wished that it were true. For if it was, Ned could not hate her for killing Brandon and father. He could not hate what she was going to ask of him. But Lyanna would never lie to Ned. She never could. "I loved him so much," the words came out choked with emotion and fraility. "I thought that was all I needed: for me to love him and for him to love me. But things changed..." The change hurt. Growing up hurt. Realizing that what you've sacrificed everything for just a sham hurt. It hurt almost as much as she hurt now, with the fire she felt between her legs and the aches that pervaded both her body and spirit.

"I'm taking you home now. You're going home, Lya, to Winterfell, to Benjen. It'll be alright, you'll see." Lyanna thought she heard tears in his voice, and when she forced her eyes open she found it was true. She squeezed his fingers weakly. Her throat burned for him.

Yet even with Ned beside her, finally here, Lyanna felt it was too late for saving. She had lived so long in this tower, thrown herself against the walls of its cage so many times, that she feared she would die in it.

"Yes, take me home," she rasped, her eyes drooping again. "Lay me beside Brandon in Winterfell."

"Lyanna, do not... do not say that," Ned stammered with a quavering voice. Lyanna squeezed his fingers. 

"Sweet Ned," she murmured, the words hardly above a whisper. "Do not hate me for this; I ask you take my son home as well." To be in the North, where he belongs. _He needs a name,_ she thought, though she knew she may not live to say it again. _Rickard. That is a good name._ "Take Rickard home and raise him as your own. Please Ned, you must promise me this. Promise me you'll take care of him." He was crying openly now. He pressed her hand to his mouth and she felt large tears fall onto her fingers, wetting them. _I'm sorry,_ she wanted to say, to throw her arms about his neck and have her hold her like he used to. _I'm sorry._ "Promise me, Ned."

"I promise," he gasped, squeezing her fingers, "I promise, Lya."

Lyanna smiled softly and closed her eyes.

In the darkness, she saw a cage open. A grey she-wolf stepped out, bright eyes looking skyward- Lyanna felt free.


	30. Ned // Anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The gods are good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering where the AU comes in: here it is!

Ned did not know how long he sat staring at his sister, holding her hand.

It might have been seconds, minutes, or hours. Nor did it matter; he had failed his little sister. He could have sat there for days watching her serene face, that ghostly smile, and the babe, that small swaddled boy that laid on her chest, moving his mouth, searching for food.

It was not until he saw her chest rise and fall so slowly, so slightly, did he blink his eyes. Surely, he dreamt it, imagined that breath, but then it happened again: a rise, then a fall.

"She lives," Ned heard Howland murmur beside him.

Ned squeezed his eyes shut and raised Lyanna's hand to his lips, whispering into the cold knuckles, "Thank the gods." But that was all he could mumble coherently. He turned to Howland and stammered, "A m-maester, she needs... sending for..."

The crannogman understood, nodding and slipping out the door.

Ned awaited his return anxiously, and though he did not stir from his seat, a different energy flowed through him. True, he was worried still, but hope urged him to distract himself. His eyes left his sister's pale face to examine the room around him: there was a balcony that wrapped around the building to one side, a writing desk bathed in light near it, a bathroom beside it, a vanity by the door, a nightstand by the bed, and vases of blue roses strewn about everywhere- surely Lyanna's touch.

 _She lived here this whole time,_ Ned mused. _With Rhaegar._ Automatically, Ned looked back to the babe, who was whimpering softly now. _And this is Rhaegar's babe._ He reached over his sister to pull the child from her breast.

The babe stirred at the movement, still searching for something to latch onto. When he found nothing on Ned, he began to cry. Ned didn't know what to do; he tried rocking the child, walking around the room with him, but he did not hush, only wailed and wailed for a mother's milk.

Luckily, Ned was saved, as Howland returned much quicker than he expected. "The maester was already on his way here; I caught him in his path," Howland explained, before moving aside to let him in. The maester was a short, wrinkled old man with Dornish coloring; he dressed in red robes that swam on his small, hunched body. After him entered a woman, taller than he but stockier, possessing a plain face but kind eyes and long dair hair that was pulled up atop her head.

The maester spared no greeting; he went straight to Lyanna in her bed and began his examinations. The woman that accompanied him walked over to Ned and put her hands on the crying babe, moving to ease him out of his grasp. Ned pulled back, refusing her.

"Who are you?" Ned asked, confused.

"Wylla, m'lord. I'm a wetnurse." She replied in a respectful tone. At this, Ned nodded, and handed the child to Wylla reluctantly. His eyes followed the woman as she found a chair in the corner and plopped herself down in it. When she reached for the front of her dress, Ned averted his gaze, returning back to the maester as the child ceased his cries.

The old man did his examinations without a word; he put his head on Lyanna's breast, poked and prodded her middle, and moved to look under his skirt when Ned stopped him. 

"What are you doing?" A strange heat rose up through him, energizing him despite his exhaustion in both body and soul.

The maester only gave him a frown, and responded, "She just gave birth, did she not?" Ned nodded dumbly. "Then I must examine." Ned hesitated before giving him the approval to go further.

Ned found he could not watch the maester examine his sister; he went out to the balcony, where Howland met him. They both looked out upon the Red Mountains, sharing a tired silence. "Thank you, Howland," Ned said softly.

"It is nothing, my lord," Howland replied. "The bodies..."

Ned nodded, understanding what had to be done. They went out to the yard where the armored bodies of his men and the knights laid. Eight men died there, five being his own, and the blood stained the ground below them. Looking around, Ned gave a baleful sigh.

"We cannot carry them back," Ned said with a grim frown.

"Then we bury them," Howland responded cooly.

"They deserve better than common burials." To simply put the bodies of such brave men seemed a crime to the honorable Ned. No, they needed something worth their statuses. He scanned the place around him for an idea.

"Cairns," Howland suggested. "Cairns will do."

"We need stones for cairns," Ned returned. They had no stones- but perhaps... His eyes went to the round tower that housed his sister all these moons, and an idea reached him. "We can tear down this tower- it is old, not too big. Before we depart, we will have it done. For now, we should arrange them..." Howland nodded in agreement, and they put themselves to the task of setting the corpses side-by-side, out of the sweltering sun, taking careful measures not to disturb them greatly. Once they had been all set down, Ned allowed himself one last look at the men.

His eyes roamed over his own men William and Martyn, Theo and Mark, and finally Ethan. They had all come willingly, ready to throw themselves behind Ned at any cost- yet could they have foreseen this? _There is honor in this yet,_ Ned assured himself. They died for a Stark, after all- for two.

Off to the other side were the Kingsguard knights, majestic still in that white armor, and prepared to die themselves. _And now it begins,_ Ser Arthur's voice filled his mind.

"Now it ends," Ned murmured under his breath. He recalled the knight's pale greatsword just moments before it was to be sent right through his middle, and the salvation that prevented it via Howland Reed, that small, quick warrior. Ned saw that blade now laying on the ground beside him, catching the sunlight and gleaming with an eerie lustre, as if it were alive though its master fell. _The Sword of the Morning. But..._

Ned bent down and picked it up, that shining sword that almost slayed him, and was surprised at its weight. He turned it over in his hand, examining it from all angles, wondering whose blood it was on the edge. 

"The Daynes may want it back, my lord," Howland said beside him, mirroring his own thoughts.

"Yes," Ned agreed. "Starfall is not far from here; I will return it." A queer lump rose up in his throat at the mention of the city- it was the Daynes' home after all, which meant a purple-eyed maid with beautiful dark hair.

 _Ashara._ A sad smile formed on his lips. They were hopeless now. Ned was married, and Ashara... she never did love him, and she never would. But he would return her brother's sword to her; he owed her that much.

Ned detached Dawn's sheath from Arthur's hip to return the blade to it's home. He slung the formidable weight over his shoulder and went back upstairs, where the maester was administering some liquid down Lyanna's throat.

Ned blinked, awaiting an explanation, but received none until the maester finished his duties. "She has a fever," the maester announced in a sharp voice. "And she has bled quite a lot. She should be dead." Ned winced at the coldness of his tone. "But her spirit is strong- she may live yet. I will stay here until she recovers." Taking it literally, he sat himself down in the chair at Lyanna's bedside.

Ned nodded before laying Dawn across the vanity. He stepped toward the maester and asked, "May I have your name?"

The old maester shook his head. "If I give you my name, then you must give me yours."

"Fair enough," Ned conceded, puzzled. "I am Ed-"

"No!" The maester exclaimed in a shrill voice, cutting him off. "I was paid double so that I would not deal in names. Triple if I brought a wetnurse."

Ned nodded, mulling it over. _They did not want names exchanged?_ How queer! Only men who were hiding something would conceal their names. His eyes went to Lyanna, who laid there still asleep, taking shallow breaths. _She must know why. I will ask her when she wakes._

There were many things he wished to ask her, many things he wanted to know, but that would all have to wait. All Lyanna left him with was a small explanation and a babe. _Promise me, Ned,_ that ethereal voice whispered as she stood on the edge of death. Emotion clutched at him then, pulled sorrowful tears from his eyes, and he agreed. But what had he taken upon himself?

The babe slept at the wetnurse's breast, serene and still. Looking at him now, Ned saw that his father had left nothing in the little boy. That tar-black hair, the Northern color- Ned bet that when he opened his eyes they would be as grey as the Stark banners. No one could think him a Targaryen. _All the better._

Ned did not yet know what excuse he planned to fashion when he returned home with him, but he knew that his sister and Rhaegar would not play a part in it.

This he mulled over for the next two days, as he paced the floor of Lyanna's room, took long baths in the tub, thought and thought and thought. It was on his mind when he and Howland left the room to hire help to tear down the tower later; he received an assurance from a local lord that he would lend a number his men to help at any time- for a price, of course. They had also changed Lyanna's bloody sheets and her ruined dress; fearing that too much movement would hurt her, the maester ordered Ned to hold her as they stripped the bed and later, her. This had been a source of discomfort for him, but, admittedly, Lyanna's situation looked a lot less bleak in crisp cheets and a clean dress.

On the third day, when he was walking around the bedroom, eyes on the frescoed ceiling, he heard a whisper, and then a cry, "Rickard!" He whipped his head in Lyanna's direction and found his sister sitting upright, cheeks red with color, yelling as if nothing had ever happened. Ned might have smiled if she weren't so incensed. Her eyes flitted to Ned with the merest flash of recognition, which was quickly replace with the fire from before. "What is she doing with my son? Why is she holding him? Who is she? Why is he at her-"

Wylla blanched and took cautious steps toward Lyanna before carefully depositing the babe in her arms. Lyanna pressed a kiss to his forehead as soon as she had her hands on him.

"The girl wakes," the maester said from the doorway. "My work is done." With those words he gathered his things and left, sparing no time and allowing Ned no chance to thank him.

"Howland, Wylla," Ned called out to them with his eyes still transfixed on Lyanna and her babe. "Leave us, if you will." In a matter of seconds, the two obeyed, exiting the room and closing the door behind them. Ned hastened to Lyanna's side, dropping into the chair that never left her bedside and leaned into her as he did when he thought her dead. "Lyanna," he whispered breathlessly, delight grasping at his throat. "The gods are good. They have brought you back from the dead-" His breath hitched in his throat, and he repeated, "The gods are good." An unexpected smile broke out on his face, one Lyanna did not reciprocate. She only stared him with those sad grey eyes, disbelief lining her furrowed brows.

"The gods are not good," she replied coldly. "If they were good they would have killed me and allowed me to see father and Brandon again." Ned's smiled faded as suddenly as it arrived. His sister looked shaken, frightened even, yet he could not place why. He reached out to touch her, comfort her, but she drew away, pulling the babe off to the side. "You will not take him from me, Ned," she said in a firm tone.

"I made a promise to you," Ned returned in a voice softer than hers. "I will take him to Winterfell as mine own."

"I made you promise such when I thought I would die," Lyanna said ruefully. "I live, thus you needn't trouble yourself with him any longer." That stubborn jut of jaw, those narrowed, piercing eyes- how he missed them! Truly, this was his sister, as fierce as she had ever been. Yet Ned could not celebrate; a serious issue that needed resolving demanded attention.

"What is your plan, then? What do you aim to do?" Ned knew his sister was speaking out of passion, that she wasn't thinking clearly. He needed to bring her to see things the way he did.

"I will... I will..." Lyanna faltered, her eyes turning cool again. "I will go North with you and raise him myself."

"You cannot do that, Lya."

"And why not? Are you ashamed of me? I know you have a wife, Ned, and soon a family, but you will not notice me. We will have a quiet little life- you'll never have to worry about us."

"It is not that, sweet sister. It is Robert." Ned's mouth twitched disdainfully at the name. 

Lyanna did not speak for a few moments. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, her voice coming out small. "He still wishes to marry me?"

Ned nodded, biting back a grimace. "He is king now, and he will have no other. I cannot refuse him."

"Very well," Lyanna said, her voice picking up strength again. "I will marry him." She said it with such ease it stunned him; just over a year ago such words would have never left her lips, but now it tumbled out with no hint of disdain. "And I will bring my son with me. Let them speak ill of me, I care not-"

"Lyanna, you cannot-"

"I cannot! I cannot!" Lyanna cried out suddenly, startling the babe, who whimpered. "It seems that I always cannot, and that there is always a reason why. Pray tell me, good brother, what is the reason why?" Ned hated speaking to her when she was like this, and he knew it often took either harsh words or kind tones to bring her back to reality- he had already tried kindness.

"The babe will be killed," Ned asserted in a clear voice, visibly frightening his sister. She drew the babe closer to her at those words. "The princess and the prince- Rhaegar's children were killed before their mother was raped and murdered herself. Lyanna, it is a dangerous thing to be a Targaryen now."

His little sister paled, almost as white as she was when she extracted the promise from him. He feared she would faint for a moment, but she regained her bearings, and stammered, "Elia of Dorne is dead? R-Rhaenys, Aegon... they were..."

"Murdered," Ned finished her sentence.

"On Robert's orders?"

"Tywin Lannister's. Robert played no part in their deaths, but he is pleased that they perished." _Dragonspawn,_ Robert's voice resounded in his ears, terrible and cruel.

"And the Queen Rhaella and Viserys? Are they dead too?"

"No, they fled to the Free Cities." Ned studied his sister's face, which only grew more and more somber. 

"And the king?"

"Slain by Ser Jaime Lannister," his words came out bitter dripping with animosity.

"His own Kingsguard..." Lyanna mused.

"Didn't they tell you? The knights, didn't they...?" It all seemed like essential information, yet they shared none of it with Lyanna. There had to have been a reason.

Lyanna shook her head. "They only said that Robert felled Rhaegar, and that Robert is king." She looked back down to her son. "But Rickard... Rickard is my kin, if he loves me still-"

"He does." This much was true still.

"If he loves me then he will love my babe. Look at him, Ned." Lyanna tilted the babe to him, made him look at those black wisps of hair, that sullen pout. "He is nothing like Rhaegar. There is only me. Gods be good, he looks like _you_ , Ned, and Robert loves you."

 _Not now he doesn't,_ Ned thought.

"He hates the Targaryens more than he loves me, or you, even. It will not matter who his mother is; Robert will hear he is Rhaegar's seed and he will not have it in his kingdom." He saw how his sister gazed upon her child now, so tenderly, so vulnerably. He felt as if he was looking upon a private scene, that he ought to look away, but he couldn't. _Will I look at my babe like that?_ Ned wondered. Perhaps...

"If that... if that is the case..." Lyanna whispered in strained voice that seemed to nearly spill over with tears. "Then he goes with you, where he will be safe. I will marry Robert, and he will be none the wiser, and I... and I..." She pressed a kiss to her babe's head again, letting this one linger longer than the last. "Rickard may go with you," she finally conceded.

"Jon," Ned replied suddenly, earning him a quizzical look. "He will be named Jon."

"There is no better name than Rickard," Lyanna said with a frown. "Why must he be Jon?"

"Because he will be my bastard, and bastards aren't named after lord fathers." He had come to this conclusion beforehand, but the name was a decision of the moment. It may not be much better to name a bastard after his guardian, but it would do.

"Bastard?" Lyanna scoffed, her eyes turning hard again. "He is no bastard; Rhaegar and I were wed, and our son is trueborn-"

"I cannot very well argue he is my trueborn son, Lyanna," Ned reminded her before she let her passion cloud her thinking. "I will claim he is my bastard, and bring him home as such."

"Then at least make him a bastard of the North," Lyanna insisted. "Make him Jon Snow."

Ned nodded and gave a sardonic smile. "I had no other option." He watched as Lyanna's eyes were pulled back to her son, how she smoothed his brow with a steady hand.

"I'm troubling you," she whispered softly. "You are only newly wed and I'm ruining it. You bring home a bastard son before your own wife gives you a trueborn one."

"I've only one little sister in the world,and I nearly lost her." Ned said, reaching for her hand as he did before. She took it gently, looking him in the face as she did. "I gladly shoulder your burden; your kin is my blood, and I will care for him as such. What's more..." Ned paused, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. "I have a trueborn son of mine own, only a couple of moons old."

Lyanna's face brightened at that, a long-awaiting smile appearing on her lips. "Oh, Ned, that's wonderful. Then Rickard will have a brother."

 _Jon,_ Ned wanted to remind her, but he didn't have the heart to do so.

Lyanna set her babe down on the bed beside her and suddenly threw her arms around Ned's neck. Ned returned her embrace, drawing her closer to him, really, truly holding her. "I've missed you," Lyanna said into his shoulder. "I missed you so much."

"I've missed you, sweet sister."

By the next day, Lyanna had insisted that she was fully recovered, and wished to set out immediately. "Today," she said, stomping her foot even. "I would not wait another day in this tower." But wait she did, as she must, and the group spent an extra night there.

The next morning, Ned sent for the lord's laborers and the three stood outside under the Dorne morning sun as they watched a score of men and their aurouchs and horses topple the tower of stone. Ned's eyes left the scene to look at Lyanna, who gazed at the tumbling edifice with a strange gleam in her eyes, and a restless twitch to her lips that seemed as if they yearned to say something.

After that had been accomplished, Ned and Howland immediately set out to gather stones for the corpses; they had held fairly well in their armor, though some exhibited first signs of deterioration. Ned had asked Lyanna to stay back by the horses and Wylla- whom he convinced to come along -much to her chagrin. They were piling up the last of the stones around Ser Arthur's body when Lyanna strided over.

Ned whipped up, and moved to block her view. "I asked you to wait, Lyanna," he said with a hint of irritation. His sister only stared past him to the knight behind him.

"He was a good man," he heard her murmur, though it seemed to be wholly to herself. Her still eyes left the body to rest on Ned. "That is Dawn on your back, is it not?" Ned nodded in response. "It is a beautiful sword. Lovelier than Ice or even Rhaegar's-" she silenced herself then, biting her lip.

Ned took her gently by the arm and led her back to the horses. Howland followed soon after, clapping the dust from his hands, and waited for the rest to mount before he did so himself. The initial part of the ride was hushed, with Lyanna looking off with closed lips, Ned lost in thought, and Howland in his characteristic silence. The galloping of horses and the ocassional cries from the babe was all the noise afforded to them; each time Jon made any sound, however Lyanna would halt her horse and whip her head in her babe's direction before pleading with Ned to let them stop for a while.He relented for the first couple of times for Lyanna to stroke her babe and watch bitterly as Wylla fed him, but it soon became excessive and Ned put an end to it.

They found an inn in Dorne outside of Starfall where they would stay the night. Ned booked the last three rooms they had left from the beautiful maid who ran it with the intention of Lyanna and Wylla in separate rooms and Ned and Howland in one. Lyanna had different plans; she took Jon fron Wylla's arms and went into the room with two beds, where Ned reluctantly followed her. Neither of them had brought a change of clothes, so after washing their faces, they wordlessly settled in for the night: Lyanna sat up in her bed as she smoothed her babe's brow and Ned silently looked on from his side.

"I cannot bear it," his sister muttered, still gazing that tender gaze. "He was inside me for nine moons, and my dearest friend for four. And now I must leave him."

Ned could think of no comforting words; he could only stare silently at his sister, wondering what could have happened for her to grow her up so. She certainly looked the same, except for small adjustments: same dark curls, though maybe a bit longer, same grey eyes, though they were much sadder. Her face was still youthful and bright despite her illness. Yet a strange maturity emanted from inside her, the type of understanding that could only stem from unspeakable loss, immeasurable hurt, and an endless devastation.

Ned felt the same.

"Why did you do it?" Ned asked her, pulling her gaze to him. "Running away with him, that is." He feared saying Rhaegar's name. It felt wrong.

"I was a fool with a girlish heart and no sense," she replied harshly, as if she were scolding herself. "But if you would have seen him, Ned..." she paused, her eyes going distant as she recalled something. "And how beautiful he looked in the moonlight when he asked me to run, you would understand. If you would have heard the things he told me, read the things he wrote me, seen the way he looked at me, held me, loved me- you'd think there was nothing truer in this world." Her tone changed now, from one dreamy and distant to forlorn and bitter. "But if I had known about Brandon, and father... If I had known what he desired from me from the start... I would have never done it. I'd have turned from him and ran straight to Robert, begging him to marry me quick." Her lips twitched into a tight, humorless smile. "I suppose now I get that much."

Ned wanted to reassure her as he did before, when she was to be married to Robert the first time, telling her, _He is a good man, Lya, really he is._ But it was not anger that spiked her words as they did before, but resignation. His sister seemed to have given up. Where was that fire from before? That independence, that will?

"Do you wish to marry him, Lyanna?" He asked, searching for that spark from many moons before.

"I do not," she returned, bringing him a flush of relief. "I've no desire to be queen, nor his wife. But I will not fight him any longer. It is better for you, for him, and for my son." Her dreamy gaze returned back to her slumbering child, and her face softened.

A silence settled between the two of them as Ned contemplated what she said. Better for Robert, yes, as he yearned for her and no other. Better for her son that she be queen, that she guard his secret from the inside. But better for him? He looked at his sweet sister now, the girl who the world saw as a dishonored woman. Had Robert not wanted her, surely there would be someone who would take a her as wife, maidenhead or not- she was beautiful, and that was enough for some. But who? Some lesser lord with sparse holdings who would care not one whit for her spirit, but for her womb, her uses? A man who would serve as a daily reminder that she was his not through love, but his because no noble man wanted her? Or would she stay unmarried, living in Winterfell as the soiled Stark woman, as she lived with his family that would surely expand, as she watched a son whom she could not claim as her own grow up thinking himself a bastard? She would die miserable and alone, and Ned would have to bury her, and he could not bear to do that to another sibling.

Yes, it was better that she marry Robert. He was best. He was not the greatest man, or the most moral, but he was good and he loved Lyanna, and Ned prayed that he do would good by her.

"Just have faith, Lyanna," Ned said to her with a soft smile. He got up off the bed to her side, where he held that somber face and kissed the top of her curly head. "There is hope yet." Lyanna's little hand clung to the front of his shirt and stayed him, gazing up at him with soulful eyes no man could rightfully refuse.

"Do you forgive me, dearest Ned? Can you forgive your foolish sister?" She asked in a strained voice, quivering with what little restraint she had left.

"I forgive you, Lyanna," he murmured in reply, stroking his thumb across her rosy cheeks. How lovely she looked with life pulsing through her! Nay, she would forgive her, again and again and again, if it meant she could stay so alive forever. "And I do not doubt that Brandon and father do as well." How could they not? Brandon, who had loved Lyanna more than he loved himself, and father, who had doted on his only daughter despite all the troubles she caused- they would surely kiss her head as he had and absolve her despite it all.

"Then I cannot complain," Lyanna replied with a soft, sweet smile, the first one in days. "But when I come to visit Winterfell, I will go to them, and I will throw myself down before their coffins and beg their forgiveness. Will you have me at the Great Keep when I come?"

"Your home will be waiting for you, Lyanna," he assured her with another kiss, this time on her cheek. "And so will they."

 

The next day, when he faced his lost love with the sad purple eyes, Ned realized how alike she was to Lyanna. A strong spirit crushed, a brother lost, a child torn from her, a dishonor that marked her- but she lacked the will his sister had. He saw a woman who no longer wished to live.

 _"The Lady Ashara still mourns her child,"_ a servent had warned him. _"It was over a year ago, yet she still grieves."_

She had looked upon Dawn for so long Ned thought she might she take it from him and run it through her middle. For a moment, Ned thought he might tell her that once upon a moon he loved her so, and that some of that feeling lingered still. But she looked so sorrowful, so brokenhearted- she simply did not need to know.

Shortly after he departed with a bow and final word of apology, news reached him that Ashara threw herself into the sea.

"The ocean cleanses, Ned. It washes you clean." Lyanna had told him as comfort. "Rhaegar told me that once. Perhaps she wanted to start anew."

_I hope she does. As I hope it for myself, I wish it for her._

The road to King's Landing was clearer and brighter than Ned ever remembered it. 


	31. Robert // Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert is glad to have his lady near again, despite it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left folks... I hope you've enjoyed it thus far!

When Robert received word that Ned and Lyanna were nearing King's Landing, he flew into a fevered frenzy that might have named him The Second Mad King.

No one was spared from his passions. He bellowed at the tailor to find him finer clothes, hollered at the servants to hurry and prepare a bath, damn them, he growled at Jon Arryn when he asked him to calm himself. "Calm?" He snarled viciously. "How can I be calm? The others take you, Jon, _Lyanna's_ coming." His lady love, his reason for being, his wild she-wolf was going to cross the gates into the Red Keep and gods help him if he wasn't there to meet her looking his very best.

After much frustration and a score of jittery servants, Robert had settled on a kingly outfit, blue and gold, that fit him nicely and would hopefully please Lyanna. He had struggled with the matter of his hair for some time, however; he hadn't cut it once since the war began, and it now fell in loose curls to his shoulders. He had pulled a few maidservants aside and jostled them, asking if they preferred it long or short. The girls had stammered out useless replies and on a whim he asked for it all to be sheared off, leaving him with the cropped hair he had from before the war.

After this was all well accomplished, Robert rushed out to the threshold of the Red Keep and awaited his betrothed.

Anxiety made the time pass by quite slowly, as it seemed like hours before they appeared. He had stood out under the hot sun, pulled at his stifling collar, and muttered curses under his breath, garnering stares from the people standing by. Even when they did arrive, Robert was no less relieved; the very sight of them both excited and frightened him.

They had been mounted atop horses, Ned, Howland, and Lyanna- who had, curiously, been riding sidesaddle -but dismounted before the gates. The group walked down the aisle and the climbed to the top of the stairs where he stood, but his eyes never left her.

She was lovely, as he had remembered her. The skirts of her pale blue dress swayed with each step, hugged her waist, looked enchanting on her milky-white skin. Long, dark curls bounced about her face, which, when closer-up, held a rosy-pink color high on her cheeks. Though her eyes were lowered to him when she dropped into a deep curtsy at his feet, he knew when she would gaze up they would be the chilling grey of her house. Robert felt his throat tighten at her proximity. He could lean down and take her in his arms now...

"Rise," he said instead, in a voice turned breathy by her enamouring presence. Though all three obeyed, he had really meant it just for her. Her head remained demurely lowered, but Robert changed that; he reached out to tilt her chin up, and looked upon her face for the first time in many, many moons.

Those eyes! They struck him to the bone as they first did back in Winterfell, those grey, grey orbs that burned with an unusually bright flame- they looked sadder now, more forlorn, but that would change. By the gods, he would make it change.

"It is good to see you again, my lord," Lyanna said in a voice he imagined and reimagined in his head a thousand times.

"And you, my lady," he replied after clearing his throat. His hand went reached down to hold hers, lifting it to press his lips to her knuckles. He thought to say something romantic, some sweet poetry to send a comely blush to her cheeks, but all he could utter was, "You must be tired."

She nodded, and gingerly removed her fingers from his grasp. "Might I go rest now, my lord?" she asked, and with a dumb nod he moved out of her way, motioning for a handmaiden to show her to her room. Robert looked over his shoulder to watch as she walked inside, and did not tear his gaze away until she was well out of sight.

Ned and his crannog friend were left before him, with an unknown figure behind them. It was a woman, a bit plump and thick-boned, and carrying a babe in her soft arms. His attentions quickly went from the woman to Ned, whose eyes darkened considerably.

"Still angry with me, then?" Robert asked with a grimace.

"Something like that," Ned replied curtly. "Though perhaps not as strongly as before. Lyanna has..." He trailed off, not finishing this thought, but Robert understood.

He clapped his sullen friend on the back and gave him a large grin. "Don't look so sad, Ned! She is alive, thank the gods, and near again as you wanted. Don't be angry any longer- be glad."

His friend did not return his smile, but gave a little nod. "I've other things to worry about now." His eyes went to the babe behind him in that woman's arms. "But I will not forget Elia and the children, Robert."

_Of course not,_ Robert thought. _Northerners never forget._

Brushing the topic aside, Robert asked, "Whose babe is that?" As if knowing he was being talked about, the child turned its little dark head, revealing grey eyes that looked a lot like...

"Mine," Ned said without a hitch.

Robert blinked, confused. "Yours?" He glanced past his friend to try and catch glimpse of the red-headed Tully woman he married. There was no sign of her.

"My bastard," Ned replied calmly, stunning Robert. He felt his jaw go slack, likely an unseemly sight for the people who were looking upon their king now. But it simply didn't make sense- Ned, with a bastard? It was like Baelor the Blessed having a mistress- no, _ten_ mistresses. "His mother had died, and I came to claim him." There was a hint of melancholy in Ned's eyes, a dull spark that looked a bit like shame.

"The honorable Ned Stark sowed some wild oats then?" Robert said in jest, but Ned's frown only grew deeper.

"I've shamed my lady wife, Robert."

"Ah, you barely knew her! But you are bringing the babe into your home?"

"Aye, that I am. I promised his mother I would."

Robert didn't agree with this. "You needn't do anything, Ned. You've no reason to bring a bastard into your own home-"

"I've already decided I would." Ned said with a conclusive air, likely hoping to end this clearly discomforting conversation.

"Alright, very well then," Robert said with a shrug, not really that invested. "Jon tells me you've a trueborn babe of your own now. A son."

At this, his sullen friend softened, giving a little smile that broke up the tension in his face. "Aye, I do. I picked a name for him."

"Is that right? What is it?"

"Robb."

Robert couldn't help himself; he threw his arms around his friend and engulfed him in a joyous hug. "Ah, I am honored!" He cried out gleefully. "And we will be brothers soon, my dearest friend." He pulled away from him, holding him by the shoulders. "You will stay for the wedding, won't you?" His wedding to his lovely Lyanna, whom he's yearned and ached for and who was in the Red Keep awaiting him.

"I hope to, if it is done soon," Ned affirmed. "I do not want to spend much more time here. I wish to go North, to my lady wife and my babe, and bring Brandon's and father's bones back home."

Robert nodded in understanding. "We will be wed in no more than a week's time. I do not want to wait any more than you do." He slung an arm around Ned's shoulders and led him inside. "Come now, my brother, stop looking so damned bitter- Let's put some wine in you."

Ned gave a baleful sigh, perhaps giving up on trying to reason with him. Though he could tell that his friend was still embittered by the past, he knew very well it would fade in time.

After all, Lyanna was here.

 

Robert simply couldn't wait to see her again. He had first expected to see her among the audience in the throne room that day, but when he searched the throngs of people, he did not find her among them. Hope was restored when he thought she might come to supper, but again she did not appear. Disheartened and a little worried, he had asked Ned where she was, why she didn't arrive, and he replied quite cryptically, "She didn't wish to come."

After supper, as Robert wallowed in his confusion, Jon met him in his chambers with a grave look on his old face. Robert's muscles tensed at the sight of him. "Robert," Jon said in that sage voice of his. "Dorne still will not swear fealty-"

"Oh, the Others take Dorne!" Robert exclaimed with a groan. "I do not care whether they wish bend or not. They will bend, and you will make them." Gods, did details bore him! He simply wanted it done, and soon.

"I am trying, my lord," Jon said with a terse sigh. "But there is something you may do that can help to hasten the process."

"Tell me, then," Robert replied, dropping in a chair to prepare himself for the speech. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do not marry the Lady Lyanna."

Robert's head snapped up at the words, his eyes narrowing with distrust. "I will not do that."

"She is a dishonored woman, my lord, and that is only the start," Jon was trying to justify his ridiculous words, but Robert already blocked him out. "She is the reason for the Targaryen downfall, for Elia's disgrace, for Rhaegar's infidelity-"

"Do not say his name in my kingdom!" Robert roared at the mention of that monster, that defiler. "Lyanna had done nothing- she was kidnapped, as you may recall, and raped by him- she is sinless." Lyanna was still pure and clean in his eyes, and surely she hurt- he aimed to help her, be her savior, and for her to love him, as it should be.

"If you insist, my lord," Jon said with a grimace. "But Dorne will not approve."

"They will approve if they do not want another war coming their way," Robert snarled in response. "They'll soon shed their salty nature, and they'll bend, and you will make it so."

"They will not forget what was done to Elia and her children. The Martells never will."

"Let them remember, then. I care little for them- just make them swear, Jon, do whatever you need to do. But do not-" He paused, mustering up some rage. " _Do not_ speak of the lady Lyanna in a less than favorable fashion. She will be my queen, and that is how I want it." It was how it was supposed to be.

"Tywin Lannister's daughter is still an option, my lord, and it would be much more beneficial to the kingdom that you accept his offer."

Robert's blood boiled at the mention of that pampered sister of Jaime's; yes, she was certainly beautiful with those sparkling green eyes and those pink lips, but she was not at all what he wanted, not at all who he wanted. She was a groomed lioness with a penchant for propriety and niceties. Oh, he remembered what Tywin said when he first offered his daughter: "If you would honor her with a marriage, she would make you a good queen and a better wife." This he said in front of that girl, as she batted her lashes at him and pinned them with those wide eyes. It had taken every bit of self-restraint not to throw them both out for assuming Lyanna was unmarriagable, or worse, dead.

"I do not want the Lannister woman. I will have none other than Lyanna- why did I fight this damnable war if not for her? I had this cursed crown placed on my head and my arse put in that uncomfortable throne for her. I will marry her, come fair or foul fortune."

Jon gave a nod and bow. "Very well, my lord."

With an exasperated groan, Robert said, "The Others take you, Jon- do not call me 'my lord'."

"Very well, Robert." With that, he exited, and the room filled with yearning for Lyanna again.

Truly, he couldn't keep from thinking of her, not when she was so near. War had played as a distraction from those compelling thoughts, but they were no longer in the throes of battle; his passions were to be directed elsewhere, to some _one_. And thus, when he knew he would get no sleep that night, he lumbered out of his room and made his way to her.

He had her chambers arranged in the Maidenvault, in that tall tower behind the sept, where she would be safe from all harm. He climbed all those stone steps to the very top, where guards stood by, where his lady would be, and paused when his hand touched the door knob.

His hesitation was not one of moral reluctance, however; It had never occurred to him that it was likely an improper thing to enter a lady's chambers at night, betrothed or not. He only worried what Lyanna would say or do when he entered, and prayed it was pleasant.

Affording her some courtesy, his other hand knocked twice on the wooden door. A voice called from inside, "Come in," with no inquiry as to who it was.

Robert obeyed, turning the knob and opening the door outwards, where inside the brightly-lit room sat Lyanna at the edge of her bed with her legs pulled up to her chest. She was dressed in a nightshift had white as sea brine, one made of thicker cloth than the one she wore the night she came to see him in Winterfell- he knew this as less of her form was visible. Getting to her feet, she said, "I had a feeling you would come tonight."

Robert did not question her "feeling", only closed the door behind him and stood stiffly with his hands behind his back. _Oh gods,_ he groaned inwardly, feeling his chest tighten and his mouth going dry. It was the old, familiar anxiety he felt, that queer power Lyanna held over him that turned him from Robert the Brave to Robert the Meek. You've killed hundreds of men and yet you cannot look her in the eye without your cock shrinking, he scolded himself.

But how could he not falter? He had waited so long to see her, even longer to be with her, alone, and now she was here, in the flesh, just a few steps away. She was everything he fought for, the only thing he ever wanted, and she was _here_. The bards may sing of his trimuphs in battle, of his warhammer and his cock, but no song could even begin to put into melody his love for Lyanna. Every wound he took was for her. Every battle-cry was for her.

And she was here.

"How do you find your chambers, my lady?" he stammered back. _My lady? Call her by her name, you fool, call her Lyanna._ "Lyanna," he breathed, the name tasting sweeter than ever, sweeter than the memory of her lips or any wine.

"My chambers? They are very lovely... and secluded, my lord," She said in reply.

"Robert," he corrected her quickly. "Call me Robert." _As you used to._

"Robert," she murmured, sending his heart a-flutter and his boldness rushing back to him.

"Oh, I've missed you," the words came tumbling out, desperate to leave his lips. "I've missed you so much." Emboldened by his confession, he closed the gap between them, taking her face into his hands, and kissing her brow. He felt her hand on his chest and he reached down to take those calloused fingers and kiss her open palm. His eyes met hers, drawn to them as he always ways; in those pale grey pools he saw that relentless melancholy that rimmed them, faint as a whisper. He did not remember ever seeing such sorrow in that bold gaze; a heat creeped up his neck at the man who put it there. "I would kill him again if I could," he hissed without specifying who. "For what he did to you, Lyanna, I would raise him from the dead and kill him a thousand times before I could be only a little satisfied."

"What did he do to me, Robert?" Lyanna asked in a calm voice, her face bearing no emotion. His hands slipped from her and rested at his side.

"W-What did he do?" Robert returned, baffled. "He kidnapped you, he hid you, he-" He ran a hand through his hair, trying to regain composure but his body betrayed him with large, heavy breaths and a heat in his blood. "He _raped_ you, gods know how many times!" He didn't know what to expect from her as a response: tears, rage, or defeat, but a silence followed instead. She only stared at him, searching his face, lowered his guard. _What is she...?_

"Might I speak plainly with you?" She asked, relieving him of the silence.

"Of course," he said in response.

"What you know is a lie, Robert. Rhaegar no more raped me than he did kidnap me."

Robert blinked, taking a step back. He searched her face for some hint of lying, of a cruel jape, but he found none and refuted it himself. "Don't speak madness, Lyanna," he said with an uneasy chuckle. "You were locked in that tower with him the whole time-"

"Oh, what is it with you men?" She growled, her tone suddenly turning sour. She gave him a sharp push and stepped back. "A woman cannot fall in love and run without a whole army of them shouting that she was raped?"

"Fall in love? What are you-" Robert's head began to spin and spin as he attempted to understand the words that came out of her mouth. When he could not level things out, could not think straight, he only stammered, "He must have made you believe that. He must have broken you. There is no way I can believe-"

"You are a fool if you think a mere man can break me, Robert," she returned curtly, an edge of irritation to her voice. "And if you refuse to believe, then I will make you, or you will have an unhappy wife who cannot confide a single word of truth in her own husband."

Robert couldn't respond; gods, his head hurt, and he couldn't respond.

"I loved him." The words felt like a cold hand had grasped his heart and squeezed. "I dreaded marrying you, Robert, I could not bear the thought of it, of a husband who cared not one whit for my mind-"

"I cared for your mind," he croaked solemnly, trying to defend himself with a broken voice.

"You cared for my lips and my breasts and the place between my legs, and perhaps you cared for my spirit, but not my mind." She sighed then, pressing the heel of her hand to her temple as she closed her eyes and furrowed her brows in thought. "Oh, but I loved him. He came to me in my godswood and asked me to run away with him, and I said yes without thinking." She opened her eyes and looked at him, jarring him to the bone. _She is sinless,_ he had told Jon, _Pure and clean._ He was supposed to save her from darkness, let her know she was loved.

A dead man beat him to it.

"In the tower in Dorne," she continued after taking a quivering breath. He saw her fingers shake, and Robert wanted to still them, but he couldn't; he was frozen, bewildered. "I was his wife. He treated me as such, as his equal- he thrilled me, truly he did. I thought myself to be happy, so terribly happy and in love- he was everything to me. Have you ever loved anyone like that?" _Yes,_ he wanted to say. _You._ "It was like a dream," Her breathy tone suddenly dropped and turned cold, "But then Brandon, and father, and the war happened, and I opened my eyes and I realized I did not love him and he loved something else more. But he would not let me go, he only..." She gave a sigh before continuing. "I behaved like a fool, and I am paying for it now. But you must understand- I need you to understand, that he did not hurt me. At least not in body."

Robert was stunned. What could he say? Call her a liar and close his eyes and insist that it was not the truth? His beloved stood before him and confessed that she loved another, that she ran to avoid marrying him. He could forgive her, but could he forget?

"I could have been good to you, Lyanna," he muttered, his energy sapped. He reached a hand out to brush away a curl from her somber face. "Gods, Lyanna, if would have given me a chance..." _I would have been so good to you._ And they would have been at Storm's End by the sea and not here, surrounded by wall after stone wall.

"Perhaps," Lyanna replied, in a voice heavy with shame. "But he... he was so... _magical_." Robert didn't know whether to cringe or growl at this praise.

"Do you love him still?" Robert asked in all cautiousness. His head stopped spinning, but not all was clear yet.

"I do not," she replied, stepping forward. He must have fell silent for quiet a while, as she spoke up again, "If you do not wish to wed me any longer, I understand. I will leave with Ned-"

"No," Robert cried out swiftly, as if he had been burned. "No, Lyanna, I... I don't care." Robert surprised himself with those words, but he continued. "Gods be good- I want you." He sighed and ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. "I fought this damnable war for you, and I'll be fucked if you think I am giving you up so easy. Rhaegar is dead." It felt so good to say it! "And he cannot hurt you any longer. I care not if he had you first, for I get to have you in the end. That is all I ever wanted." He exhaled loudly, as if relieving himself of a burden. Yes, he would put aside a thousand of her faults to have her in his arms, and he would be damned if he let a dead man get in the way of it. "By the gods, Lyanna Stark, I love you- can't you see that? I love you." He saw her brows raise in bemusement, and he knew what she wanted to say: _I don't love you._ Perhaps he didn't expect her to love him _now_ , as he loved her so, but fuck it all- She would love him eventually, this much he knew. Between their hunting trips and swordplay and their bellowing she might find time to love him, and that is all he could ask for.

There was only one thing left to ask.

"Will you marry me, Lyanna?"

He saw Lyanna blink and furrow her brows in confusion. "Why do you-"

"Oh, damn it all, answer me true now," he cut her off, but reached for her hands again, covering them with his own. "Will you marry me?"

"I will, Robert. There is no life for me elsewhere. I've already decided I will marry you." Ah, dejection! He could take offense to it, but... Nay, it will atone- for now, he would take it.

"Then we wed as soon as possible," he decided hurridly. "I cannot wait much longer." The very idea of her roaming the castle grounds, untouchable, not yet his, drove him half-mad. Had it not been for that damn crown, he would wed her tonight, and kiss her as a married woman.

"I will make a terrible queen," she grumbled, casting those grey eyes downwards. He tilted her chin up again, not wanting to be deprived of them.

"And I'm a terrible king," Robert said with a grin. "We can reign terribly together."

She abruptly pulled her hands away from his and narrowed her eyes. She looked to be on the offensive; Robert braced himself.

"Yes, you _are_ a terrible king," Lyanna agreed ruefully, and with a rage he didn't know he missed so much. "Ned told me about Elia and the children."

Robert wanted to groan aloud at the reminder.

"You must do something, Robert. Someone must be punished. It was cruel-"

"Not you too!" He cried out, throwing his arms down. "Gods be good, I-"

"You must do something. If you do not, I will-"

"Allow me some time! Gods, I'll find something to please you lot with." Jon, Ned, Lyanna- they were all made of the same stuff, that relentless honorable goodness that made him love them so much.

"Very well, then," Lyanna huffed. "I pray you do the right thing."

"Maybe," Robert muttered, kicking at the carpet.

" _Robert_ -"

"Drop the matter, woman!" He cried out of frustration, which touched a nerve with her.

"Woman! Already you address me so, no more 'my love', or 'my sweet', now I am simply _woman_. Oh, and these chambers? I despise them- whose cruel idea was it to put me in the Maidenvault? I want-"

Robert smiled wide. This was what he fought for. This was all he ever wanted. This passionate woman who loved to argue, the one woman in the world who could disarm him with a smile and send him into a screaming match with one false word. If there was one woman he could keep his cock to, it was this one, the one who always surprised him.

Before he left her chambers he kissed her, just briefly, but it was a sweet kiss, devoid of passion or lust. It was the type of kiss that lingered on your lips, sent your heart a-flutter at the memory, brought a smile to your face.

He hoped he would give her many more kisses just like that one.


	32. Lyanna // Anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna endures a wedding, a coronation, and Robert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Oh and if the parallelism is lost on you... reread chapter six ;)

The day had come agonizingly slow, with the three days of preparation sending her from one corner of the Red Keep to the other. The largest task was fittings for a dress she had sent back several times, each time having them strip it of some garish ornament until it was quite a simple dress indeed; it was her favorite shade of blue, the cerulean of her winter roses, with white flowered brocade up and down it. Its fitted sleeves reached her elbows, where it pinched her skin uncomfortably, but it mattered little as she knew it would come off in the end.

She hardly caught a glimpse of Ned and her babe during those days, except late at night, where she would stay up with her brother and confess her frustrations to him until she wept, or almost did. It felt like Winterfell all over again, with her wailing into her father's chest that she did not want to marry, that it was not fair, and Ned, bless him, reacted the same: sage, calm, reassuring.

Perhaps one of the worst events was Howland leaving; he said he could not stay any longer, that Greywater Watch needed him, and she bit back tears as she threw her arms around him and thanked him over and over. "Anything for Lady Lyanna," he had said with a slight smile. When she saw him off at the threshold of the Red Keep, she wondered if she would see him again.

The day came, and Lyanna woke with a jostle, and a handmaiden's urgent tones. Still half-asleep, she was put through a bath, had her nails cleaned, was perfumed everywhere, put in that suffocating dress, her hair done (in Northern fashion; a simple braid down the back of loosened tresses), sent to go pray to her gods, before Ned walked her down the aisle of the Great Sept to Robert waiting at the altar.

The High Septon was going on and on about the Great Houses, and a marriage of love, and the gods' blessing, and Lyanna found she couldn't listen to any of it. As Robert fixed his misty blue eyes on her, she thought of Arthur and his short sermon, and Rhaegar's long, graceful fingers intertwined with her. Gods, she hated to think how naive she had been in that moment, but she was happy. It was much, much better than now, in this giant Sept and its Seven Walls that poured sunlight into every crevice. _Rhaegar and I didn't need this,_ she thought bitterly. Night had hung over her in her plain white dress and he in his common rider's clothes, and the spot they swore their vows in had served as their marriage bed.

Finally, the vows were said: "Father, smith, warrior, mother, maiden, crone, stranger." Words said to another man a thousand years ago. Words were wind, in the end. She knew how this would go.

But after he removed her maiden's cloak to wrap her in his cloak of black and yellow, a garment nearly as gorgeous as Rhaegar's red and black one, after their hands were bound, Robert surprised her. He removed his hands from hers, the ribbon dropping to the floor, held her face and kissed her full on the mouth, in front of the court and everyone who attended.

Lyanna didn't quite recover from the impassioned liplock until she was thrust into a tiring procession where she was made to listen to cruel tongues around her.

 _Stag's mount, dragon's whore, soiled wench._ They were drowned out by the cheers, but she heard them. _Wolf-bitch, wolf-whore_. Lyanna didn't mind those; _Good,_ she seethed each time someone hollered it. _Let them know me to be a wolf._

Robert had tried to make things more pleasant, as he often would lift the hand he held to brush his lips across her knuckles, or lean over and whispered words of assurance that mostly went like, "You're doing wonderful, Lyanna, you look beautiful."

 _I'm not a horse,_ she wanted to snap back, not quite enchanted by the compliments.

The parading continued until they reached the Grand Hall, where the music was struck up, the food was brought out, and the wine was pulled out of its cases.

Robert had certainly enjoyed the evening; He laughed and roared with his friends throughout the feast, ocassionally leaning over to squeeze her hand or peck her cheek. Lyanna could not bring herself to do much more than withstand Robert's affections. She found more solace in the cup-bearer who filled her goblets with wine than her new husband. It helped to fade out the slimy feeling of hundreds of eyes on her, all people who were judging and evaluating her like some broodmare at a show. Granted, she did not give them much to compliment her on; she was not at all playing the blushing bride, but rather the sullen one, and Lyanna did not doubt that it colored their opinions. _Keep looking!_ she wanted to yell. _By the gods, keep looking, look at your soiled queen, laugh at her. I hope winter kills you all._ Ned had taken pity on her and left Robert's posse to sit by her, and attempt to strike up conversation.

"How are you?" He asked loudly in an attempt to be heard among the noise. She gave a shrug in response, and cast her eyes downward. "It'll be fine, you know," he assured her as he always did.

"I suppose," she returned, not feeling any better. Her mind was left to wander about her son, her sweet son who looked every bit a Stark. She had held him in her arms for so brief a time, too brief for the nine moons she spent waiting for him. "You are leaving on the morrow?" She asked, moving in closer so they wouldn't have to shout.

Ned nodded, affording a little smile. "Yes, thank the gods. Home at last." She knew he spoke out of sincerity, yet it stung a little bit, that idea that he got to go home and she didn't. Sensing her melancholy, Ned covered her hand with his. "You'll visit soon, I hope," he said with a weak smile.

"My son, Ned..." His very mention sent emotion pouring into her voice. "Please, take good care of him for me. Let him grow up to be just like you, so smart and kind and honorable, and nothing like his mother." _But perhaps a little like his father._ she wanted to added, but wouldn't.

"To be like his mother would be a great blessing, indeed," Ned reassured her with a squeeze of the fingers. "Sweet and caring, loves his family, perhaps a little willful..."

In a bout of affection for her brother, Lyanna leaned over and gave Ned a kiss on his cheek. "Gods bless the ground you walk on, sweet Ned," she said, managing the first genuine smile of the evening. "I know you will care for him. I know you'll do well by him."

No sooner had the words left her mouth did a bellow rise out from the throng of men surrounding Robert: "Bedding!" And like toppling stacked stones, many more voices followed sharing the same sentiment. Her smile slipped from her face immediately, and her eyes grew wide. Before she, or anyone, could protest, a couple of men had hoisted her by waist onto their shoulders. As she was being carried away, she looked back, seeing Ned look on after her with worried eyes and a slightly open mouth. She heard Robert's loud laugh, followed by the giggles of many girls.

The men took her to a side room where they quickly got to stripping her. Lyanna couldn't react at first; shock and fright dulled her senses, as the dress was ripped off her and thrown to the ground. It wasn't until she felt the first brush of a man's hand on her skin did she react, and with great force.

"She bit me!" One of them cried, and Lyanna nearly laughed. The wine hadn't allowed for much clarity on her part; it was a wonder she didn't sink her teeth into another.

"The wolf-bitch can bite!" Another man bellowed with a guffaw that rippled throught the rest of them.

"She best put her teeth away before she reaches the bedroom," said another, garnering more laughs, and more japes.

Color rose into her cheeks at their crude comments, but not out of embarrassment; she was frustrated at them, at the men who stripped her without her consent, who laughed as she stood bare before them. It was something she did not endure for long; she was hauled out by them in time, and shoved into the bedroom where her marriage bed awaited.

Robert was not there yet. The room was dimly lit, but lavishly furnished, with a grand, canopied bed, elegant wooden tables, a wide wardrobe, and a vanity with a large, round mirror. Off to the side was a writing desk, and on the other was the bathroom. Her eyes flitted back to the vanity, where she found a bottle of wine, and two red silk robes hanging on the chair.

She stumbled to it, the wine and the mens' jostling impairing steady walking, and took the smaller robe, shrugging it on before tying it tightly around her waist. Still disoriented, she made her way to the bed, curled up on top of the sheets, and waited.

She didn't have to lay there long; Robert burst through the door soon after, bringing with him the noise from outside. It wasn't until the door was shut again did the bellowing and jests turn into a dull rumble once again.

Lyanna did not look at Robert as he came in. Her eyes focused on his pillow, on his side of the bed, which he would leave to move on top of her. She listened to the padding of his feet move about the room before he came in view.

Robert had the bottle of wine in hand, his fingers deftly removing the cork with a pop. His hair looked to be a bit tousled, no doubt due to the score of tittering girls who attended to his undressing. But none of this was outstanding- it was the red silk robe he tied about his waist that baffled Lyanna.

After flicking the cork off to the side, he fell into bed next to her with a groan. His head was rested on the wooden headboard, as he took a swig of wine. The noises outside continued; Lyanna caught some of it: some ribald suggestions of putting it here or there, talk of mounting the she-wolf, of taming her. She wondered if Robert heard them too.

"You know I didn't touch a drop of wine, tonight?" Robert said from beside her as he swirled his drink around. "Well, maybe a little. But not much."

 _You seem to be getting your fill now,_ she noted inwardly, watching as he took another gulp.

He put the bottle on the nightstand, and with another groan, he turned onto his side, leveling his eyes with hers. They were clear, she realized, and as bright a blue as could be. No mystery shrouded them, nor intrigue, nor melancholy. He spoke true with his eyes.

"I probably should have asked if you wanted a bedding," Robert said with a half-shrug.

"Probably," Lyanna uttered in reply. _But you're not much good at asking, are you?_

"I pray they didn't bother you too much. If any of them pawed at you, you tell me who, and I'll go outside now and open his skull."

Lyanna couldn't help but smile. "Then we will be like the Dothraki, murduring people during their weddings." It was a piece of information she had known only through Rhaegar. But where he had known these things, they went right over Robert's head, and he only mustered a polite smile.

His hand reached out to her, and Lyanna tensed on reflex, bracing herself for what would come next. Yet his fingers only brushed the V of her robe, gave a little tug at the front, but he did not pull it off. "I take it you don't want to do much tonight?" He asked, and on cue, a another loud comment came through the door. _"That doesn't sound like fucking!"_

"No," Lyanna murmured in response, lowering her eyes to his hand. "I'm tired." He pulled away with some hesitation.

"Ah, very well then. I suppose there'll be plenty of time for that later..." Despite the japing tone, he couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice. She still felt his eyes on her, though, boring holes through their heat. "Can I hold you, then? Just..." His hand returned to her, this time finding purchase on her shoulder. Compelled through his touch, Lyanna scooted herself into his chest, and did not tense when his arm wrapped around her back to her shoulder.

His chest was broad and warm, and the silk robe was soft against her skin. It wasn't a familiar feeling, to be held by him like so. By someone else, yes, but not Robert. Robert had always preferred his hands on her waist and breasts. She remembered that well. _When was the last time he's touched me...?_

The room fell silent as the people at the door finally left, perhaps bored, and left the two of them in peace. Perhaps it was the familiarity of his touch, or the wine she had consumed, but she felt at ease beside him.

"Do you remember that night at Harrenhal? In my tent?" Robert asked, breaking the silence.

Lyanna nodded. "We fought that night." They had kissed first, of course, but it was the fight she remembered.

Robert gave a tight grimace. "I was hoping you'd have forgotten that part."

"That would be good, wouldn't it?" Lyanna mused out loud. "To forget." They were many things she wanted to efface from her mind, terrible memories and suffocating feelings. They were here to stay, now.

"No," Robert replied, drawing her eyes back to him. He was looking up at the ceiling, as if recalling some lost emotion. "Forgetting is terrible. The worst. You lose a part of you when you forget." He turned his head to was look into her face, a spark in his eye appearing, just a little glimmer that could be translated as no other way but affection. "That night was the last time I kissed you, you know."

A girlish blush warmed Lyanna's face at the sweet words. "You kissed me today," Lyanna countered, abashed. "Though you probably shouldn't have." It was in front of everyone, after all, in front of people with loose tongues and cruel thoughts.

Robert gave a little half-shrug. "No, I mean _really_ kissed you. That way you ought to be kissed."

Lyanna did not respond to that. They spent some time locking eyes, exhanging glances, sharing breaths. It felt so strange being in his arms, even stranger that it was their wedding night and they were both robed with no intention of undressing.

"Tell me, Robert," Lyanna murmured, breaking the silence. "Why did you kiss me today? Was it because I looked beautiful in my wedding dress? Did I look ravishing bathing in the sept's sunlight?" She gave a little smile that Robert returned; his was broader, brighter, more honest. A little like the man himself, really.

"You did look beautiful," he said, lifting a hand to run through her dark tresses, entangling it in his fingers. _Robert likes my hair,_ she realized. He had always been touching her hair. "But mostly I kissed you because I was happy."

Since when had he been so sentimental? This was a different Robert than the one she left. He was warmer, more patient, more fond of her. True, he was not poetic or romantic and he preferred physical closeness to sweet words on paper, but Lyanna didn't mind. It was more honest this way.

"Will you always kiss me when you're happy?" Lyanna inquired before biting her lips. Color had risen high in her cheeks, and Lyanna could no longer tell if it was the wine or Robert.

His fingers were at the back of her head as he gently pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers. It was only a brief kiss, just a peck, but it was a lovely feeling, being kissed. "I intend to, yes," he whispered breathlessly, thrilled.

"What if you're unhappy? What will you do then?" She was trying to be cheeky, sound unfazed. 

"You won't like it when I'm unhappy," He laughed in response.

"I could speak the same to you."

"But I already know that."

The rest of the night was spent similarly, with purposeless chatter and a few more gulps of wine. When Lyanna fell asleep, it was in his arms, with her hand clinging to his robe, and the faintest of smiles on her lips.

 

Once she reached the High Septon standing before the throne, Lyanna gathered her skirts, gracefully lowering herself to her knees, where she bowed her head and awaited her crown.

The High Septon took to praising Lyanna profusely and excessively, no less talkative than the day before, until a crown was nestled atop her head, a grand queen's one, with gems of purple and gold. She saw the High Septon move aside as Robert took his spot; Robert's hand reached out, paired with a whisper: "Rise, my queen." Putting her hand in his, he helped her to her feet, leading her to her smaller throne before sitting down in his iron one.

The crowds cheered, though she knew it was not for her, and she endured it with a tight smile.

It was after the coronation that Ned had planned to head off to Riverrun, then Winterfell. Lyanna saw him off at the gates.

It had been a tearful good-bye on her part, largely because she couldn't touch her own babe and wish him good-bye, and good-luck. "Promise me, Ned," she said, taking his hand in hers. "One day, when he's old enough, tell him who his mother and father are. Tell him that he was made out of love, and that I bore him out of love- that I love him, and his father loved him."

Ned kissed her brow and promised.

 

Lyanna and Robert retired to their chambers after a grand supper.

It was a jubliant feast, though Lyanna didn't understand why one had to be held. It was lonelier without Ned, much more dull than her wedding feast, but she did not send for the cup-bearer that night. Lyanna sat there, and restlessly waited for the end.

They shared no words once in their chambers. Robert had quickly took to undressing himself so as to change into his smallclothes; Lyanna did, with some shame, peek over at him as he did. It was hard not to when he was in plain sight- Robert possessed a fine form, with a broad chest defined by hard muscle, a pair of limber arms, and such strong legs... A blush warmed her cheeks when he turned his head in her direction, and Lyanna swiftly diverted her gaze, pretending to busy herself by searching for her own nightclothes. They laid on the vanity; she picked them up, and went to the bathroom door, where she intended to change in private. Her hand was on the doorknob, awaiting a turn, but it slipped away. The nightgown fell from her hands onto the floor, and she turned her head back.

"Robert?" Her voice was hardly a whisper, just a shaky little thing. He looked back in her direction immediately. She turned away again to gather her hair in her hands, lifting it off her back to drape it on her breast. "If you will... the laces..."

She didn't hear Robert until he was right behind her, his fingers deftly undoing the laces of her gown. When he finished his task, he pulled away from her, and simply stood, as if awaiting another order.

Lyanna acted now; she crossed her hands over her chest to her arms, where she pulled the gown down and off her shoulders. Robert's hand went to touch the bare skin there, helping to get the rest of the dress off, where it joined the nightgown on the floor.

Taking a deep breath, Lyanna turned around to face him.

His eyes roamed up and down her, drinking her in until they filled with lust and need. _He's looked at me like this before. Both of them._ It wasn't an uncomfortable gaze; it brought a little blush to her cheeks, as it always did. Before he could reach for her, Lyanna pulled at the hem of his shirt, which he quickly disposed of.

Her eyes settled across his torso, large and muscled, and spotted with scars. She could not find the mark Brandon gave him, but she found something else: a puckered pale line down his left shoulder, largely healed, but evidently the deepest one of all. Drawn to it, Lyanna's fingers danced across it, measuring its length.

"That one was from Rhaegar," Robert muttered, his eyes following her fingers.

"It was deep," she noted, fascinated. She raised her eyes, watching as he picked up her hand and brushed his lips across her fingertips.

Lyanna didn't know how it happened, but she her hand was at the nape of his neck, pulling his hungry mouth to hers. His arms wrapped around her, pressing her body to his, squeezing tight as if he were afraid she'd run again.

With strong arms, he lifted her up; out of habit, Lyanna wrapped her legs around him as he carried her to the bed. There, positioned on top of her, he quickly got to kissing down her throat, in between and around her breasts. His breath left a steamy little trail as he moved up a breast to latch onto a nipple; Lyanna cried out, arching into him as he sucked and teased; It was a such a pleasurable sensation to receive the attentions of a man's mouth, one she missed more than she realized. Base desire and innate passion fueled her now, warmed her skin and made her wet.

"It's been... been so..." she tried to speak, but her words came out as desperate moans, her body eager for more. _It's been so long._ So long since a man had loved her like this, with a passion so fervent and true. It seemed not to matter who it was, just that it was happening, and it felt good.

"So what? So what, my love?" He asked between the scorching kisses he pressed down the flat plain of her stomach.

"So lo- _Oh_ ," she gasped as his head bowed between legs, and she felt his tongue tease her. Her hips bucked in response, which earned her two hands holding her down as he kissed, licked, drank her in.

"Gods..." she gasped, her hands flying down to fist his hair, push him down, hold him in place. He must have enjoyed the feeling, as he moaned against her, sending vibrations up to her belly, inflaming it. Though Lyanna nearly peaked through that alone, he wrenched out of her grasp, pulling her under him again by her hips.

"You taste so good," he murmured, his breath hot on her lips. He leaned down and covered her mouth with his, over and over, kissing her in all urgency. She felt his gruff hands pull her closer to his hips, to the arousal that pushed against his breeches, when Lyanna pressed the flat of her palms against his chest and pushed him off.

He fell in beside her, propped up on his forearm, looking a little miffed and very confused. Lyanna could have laughed at how ridiculous he looked, mouth agape, face flushed, and hair tousled if she wasn't so _nervous_. It was like she was a maid again, laying on a cloak under the heart tree, wondering if she were doing it right. Lyanna knew this much: she'd be damned if she let him control her from now.

"Do not look so upset, Robert," she murmured, as she leaned up to him, touching noses. Her hand went to his scarred shoulder, pressing him down onto his back. He growled when he move in to kiss her, catching her lower lip between his.

As she kissed him, she brought a leg over his hip, straddling him in all carefulness. She reluctantly pulled away from his generous mouth to scoot down to his thighs, where her hands worked at undoing his breeches, pulling it down over his cock, discarding it onto the floor where her clothes lay. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hips over his; her limbs shook, anxiety and desire clashing inside her, until grabby hands flew to her hips, which she covered with her own. She allowed him to guide himself inside her, painstakingly slow for both him and her, until she was fully lowered onto him. Lyanna shuddered at the feeling, motionless as she took in the sensation of a man inside her. How long had it been? Many, many moons... Her fingers must have shook, still trembling with anxiousness, as Robert's hand grabbed hers, their fingers intertwining. Lyanna's eyes flitted from their hands to Robert's face, where he gazed at her with loving eyes.

She began to rock her hips, quickly at first, before she found a steady motion. Her free hand scraped down his chest, leaving pale marks as a trail, and dug into his shoulders when she threw her head back and gasped. It was then that she squeezed his hand, and then that he leaned up to kiss her. His fingers threaded through her hair, pressed into her back to bring her closer, and she wrapped her legs around him tighter.

The closeness of him disarmed her; she put her arms around his neck, nails digging into his back, and in a moment of desperation she whispered into his ear: "hold me". He obeyed, his arms crossing over her back to bring her as close as she could get. All was silent for a moment, with only the sound of Robert pressing kisses to her neck and their soft, labored breathing warming each other. "Gods be good," Robert whispered against her skin, sending chills down her spine. "You drive me mad, Lyanna."

"Show me," She replied, her fingers tightening the grasp on his shoulder. "Show me how I drive you mad."

Without any further encouragement, he turned her onto her back, where his hand found hers again, pressing it into the pillows beside her head. His breath was hot on her ear as he moaned, _Lya, Lya, Lya_. His weight was greater than she was used to, she realized, but it was not uncomfortable, as each time he thrusted into her, his chest would graze the tips of her breasts and send her moaning for more.

He answered her siren song, planting sweet kisses down her neck, dancing his rough fingers down her thigh, growling into her ear whenever she raised her hips to meet his. Lyanna lost herself in the little pleasures he gave her, as she measured time through his grunts and her moans, the tugs she took at his hair, and his musky smell of sweat and leather.

When she reached her peak, she arched into him, shuddering from one end to the other, dragging her nails down his back. Robert followed soon after, moaning out her name, _Lyanna_ , before concluding.

He didn't roll off her immediately, choosing instead to gaze down at her through heavy-lidded eyes. The hand that held hers slipped out of her grasp, thumb brushing across her brow before turning down to her chin. He leaned down to kiss her swollen lips, which parted immediately to accept him. _Good,_ she thought to herself. _It feels so good._ After getting his fill, he pulled away, and rolled off to his side of the bed.

Shame instead of sweet sedation suddenly filled her veins, and she turned her back to him. _You don't love him, Lyanna, and look what you've done: You've taken pleasure from him, and now he'll take it from you._ Her loins ached so sweetly, though, betraying her thoughts, and her nipples were still stiff. _It felt good, and that's why I did it. Can't I feel good?_

She felt those thick fingers graze down her bare back, forcing her to bite back a shudder. His hand went to her stomach, where he pulled her to him so that she settled in the crook of his body. She feared turning her head to meet those blue eyes again, feared that she would read love in the clarity of them, and that it would mean that he wanted her still. So her gaze focused on the wall across from her, as his hands gingerly stroked her stomach.

"Are you alright?" He asked, being infuriatingly kind. She wanted to hate him for it.

"You shouldn't have married me," she blurted out, a heat creeping up her neck. "You should have found yourself some pretty little maid of four-and-ten who you could raise up to think you the greatest man alive. A girl who would pretend that you loved her, and she you, and ignore when you come to bed smelling like another woman." Frustrated tears pricked behind her eyes, but Lyanna kept talking. "Not a woman of eight-and-ten who's fucked a man before you and knows what to expect from men like you."

Robert laughed bitterly, enraging her further. "What do I want with a soft maid of four-and-ten? Gods, Lyanna, I want you-"

"Why? Why would you want me?" She shot back, turning her head to meet his eyes. "I do not understand you, Robert Baratheon. I came to you and I told you I loved Rhaegar, and you took me anyways. It was cruel to both you and me that you did that. You should have sent me away, damn you!" And then they came, without her bidding: hot tears trickled down her face, mingling with her shame and making her hate herself more. She pushed her face into the pillows, muffling her insipid sobs.

"Gods, Lyanna," Robert voice felt hot on her ear, soft and exasperated. "You speak like I'm a monster."

"You must be," she murmured into her pillow. "To hear me say I loved another man and not feel anything about it. I wanted to hurt you. Didn't it hurt?"

"Of course it hurt! Gods, it hurt. But I'll be damned if I let that bastard take you away from me again." She felt his hand creep up further, below her breasts, but she did not shy away from it. She turned her head to look up at him again, sniffling at the grimace she saw. "You know, your brother didn't want me to marry you. Ned, not Brandon- but Brandon never did think I was good enough for you." A chuckle slipped past her lips at the warm memory of Brandon's seethings. She could nearly hear him now, spitting _damn southerner_. "But Ned... he only gave you up because I'm king. That's the only thing I can thank this damned crown for."

"Give me up? You speak like I'm a plow-horse meant to be traded," she huffed angrily, wanting to be difficult.

"Pull your claws back, Lyanna. I didn't mean it like that," he returned just as bitterly. He pulled her to him now, pressing her back to his hard stomach. His hand reached for hers, pressing it to her middle and covering it with his own. _His hands feel different,_ Lyanna mused inwardly. They were rougher, more calloused; his fingers were thicker than Rhaegar's, which were long and slim. Even his touch felt different: it was heavier, harder, not fleeting and graceful. Leaning over her, he kissed away the tears that remained on her flushed face, before pressing his salty lips to her mouth. _Even his kisses are different._

"You'll tire of me," she murmured against him, her misty eyes gliding to meet his heavy-lidded ones. "You'll find younger, more beautiful girls to lay with you, and in time I'll be nothing to you."

"I do not plan on tiring of you anytime soon. Not if you keep saying mad things like that." He said this humorlessly, and with the slightest twist of irritation to his mouth.

"You're right," she admitted with a sigh. "We haven't done everything yet. In a couple of weeks, then, you'll tire of me."

"Will I get a prize if you're wrong?" Robert said cheekily, flashing his easy smile.

"Yes. Another two weeks."

He laughed into her hair, running a thumb on the underside of a breast as he did so. Lyanna managed a sniffling smile, before her face turned dark again. "You've no right to be merry yet," she said gravely. "I pray you haven't forgotten Elia and the children?"

"Not this again," he groaned, fingers going limp against her.

"You must do something. Punish Tywin Lannister, or have him punish the men who killed them." Gods, she would make a terrible queen, but she yearned to see this much done.

"Will it please you if I do?" Robert asked. Lyanna was taken aback by his quick submissiveness, but gathered her wits fast enough to answer,

"Yes, it would."

"Then I'll have it done," he said, his mouth forming a grim line. "Jon won't be happy to hear it."

"Let him be unhappy. You are doing what's right." It was her final service to Elia, to the woman with the sad smile who fell victim to the same scheming Lyanna did.

As he pressed a kiss to her neck, his hand returned to rubbing small circles on her abdomen. _Had he always been so tender?_ Perhaps she never noticed.

"If things turn sour here..." Robert began, his voice low, sedated. "There's always the Free Cities. We can always run."

The she-wolf inside her began to stir, moving to sit on her haunches with her eyes looking skyward. Lyanna smiled.

"Yes. We can always run."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! As I've noted before in the comments, I do not know if I'll pick up this story again or write another chaptered fic. Expect oneshots and drabbles from here on out. Thank you ALL for reading, and for enduring til the end. This became much longer than I expected, but.... eh.
> 
> Hope to hear from you all again soon :)


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